


"i will make you queen of everything you see,"

by civilorange



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), POV Multiple, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 89
Words: 309,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"i'll put you on the map, and cure you of disease."<br/>// snap shots of a lifetime where kara didn't get knocked into the phantom zone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. snap shot 01. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been writing down little word-doodles of a life where Kara didn't get knocked into the Phantom Zone; quick little notes, that I posted on tumblr a while ago, but watching the show just makes me want to keep them up. So, here's the first one; three years after Kara lands.

  
**SNAPSHOT (KARA)**. No one knows who the person who will save them is; not their name, not how they'll look, or what they'll mean to you. You hadn't imagined her when you were shot across the galaxy; you hadn't imagined green eyes and sharp words. But now you can't imagine life without her. Without your own personal salvation _. //_  Prompt from maggiemerc

* * *

You wake up with crumbling worlds behind your eyelids. The red dust of Krypton caught in your eyelashes, the dry air clambering like tumbling stones in your lungs. You have no words in this language, or any other, to describe how exactly a planet sounds when it dies. The groan of shifting plates, and brittle atmospheres—how it shivers beneath your feet, how it whines and whimpers. Living in all the same ways as the people who will share its grave; left in the emptiness of space, forgotten, adrift. You carry an apology in your chest, a silent unspoken _I’m sorry_ that has somehow stitched itself into your spine, into your heart; into the strongest parts of you, because whenever you wonder where you came from, why you’re here, you think of that apology. Of what you had promised a dying world.

You’d be one amongst millions at home, just a girl who wanted to hug a star, who dreamed of faraway places that would be wonderful, and warm, and bright. You’d traced constellations against your father’s chest while he named them—he’d always been so good, had always known, even when you’d cheated a little and didn’t draw them properly. Straying a little too far between stars, curving them when they should be straight—he’d laugh and hoist you up, spinning before setting you down.

“Clever girl,” he’d smile, not like he did for your mother, or any of his friends, it was his smallest, most genuine, smile—just for you. He’d press his finger to your nose, and then pull you into his arms. A hug more comforting than any a star could offer.

On the nights you remember your dying home, you can almost feel his arms engulfing you.

“Kar?” Clarke asks, his small hand tucked into the strap of your backpack, his other hand swinging back and forth, fingers clutching tightly to the stuffed guinea pig he’d “won” at the carnival over the summer. (He really had just thrown himself to the ground and cried until the carnies felt bad and offered him the stuffed rodent.)

“Yeah, bub?” You’re looking at the bus schedule, because you’re not familiar with this side of town. You know the sixteen brings you closest to the upper-west, but that transit wouldn’t dream of coming this far south in the city.

“We gonna see Kitty?” Blue eyes wide, innocent, still so full of things you can only hope to keep in him—things you’ll always protect him from. Not because you promised your mother, though you had, but because your cousin is your whole world—no, universe.

Your world was dead.

You are just borrowing this one.

“We are.” You trail of, tracing the red line until you find where it stops two blocks over.

“Kitty has popcorn, and candy, and movies!” The enthusiasm is infections, because all he can do is babble about how much fun they’re going to have the whole ride there—he’s too young to see how you’re down to your last dollar, that the juice box you gave him is your last. You’ll always protect him from these things. The hard truths out there that he doesn’t need to know—just yet.

The buildings become larger, more glass and chrome; the cheap neon signs from pawn shops changes into the inlet ambient lighting of the avenue—drugged out prostitutes in cheap pleather, turning into old money in sleek fur. You’ve never been particularly comfortable in this side of town; you feel somehow more out of place than an alien from the other side of the galaxy should.

Which is saying a lot.

You don’t realize you’ve pressed your forehead against the cool window, closing your eyes and basking in the warm light of the yellow sun—it digs into you in ways you’ll never be able to describe. Like forever promises and tight hugs; it makes you stronger than the _I’m sorry_ you hold inside, at least physically.

“Kar! Kar! It's Kitty!” Opening your eyes, he’s already getting up, and you just snag him by the back of his pants before he sprints off the landing; two passengers pass by with upturned noses and scoffs, but they’re immediately cowed when you hear _excuse you_ in a sharp, commanding tone. No seventeen year old should have that much authority laced into their bones—but this one manages like she was born to conquer worlds with nothing more than impeccable posture and a silver tongue.

“Kitty!” He shakes free, showing some of that yellow sun strength he still doesn’t know separates him from everyone else, and throws his small body at the girl waiting at the bus stop. You stumble behind him, utterly graceless, pushing your glasses up your nose, looking everywhere but at the reunion happening before you.

It isn’t until the bus chugs away that you can feel her eyes on you—burning in ways the yellow sun can’t touch. Swallowing, you look up to catch her eyes—green, but not just green. Seafoam, or emerald, or celadon—or—you don’t know, she’s always been the writer. They’re just green, and _wonderful_.

“Take a breath, supergirl,” Cat drawls, lips turning up into something that is mostly a smirk—but could be mistaken for a smile if you know where to look. And you do. “Who’ll save us if you give yourself a concussion getting off a bus?” Clark has wrapped himself around the girl’s legs, his face pressed inter her stomach, but Cat’s always seemed— _at ease_ with Clark.

From the very first time she prevented him from sprinting out into traffic; becoming the boy’s hero in turn.

You can bench press a car, fly, melt things with your eyes, but you’re old news—Cat Grant? She’s where it’s at.

Apparently.

“You didn’t have to meet us,” the words tumble free, before you can tuck them away, “I know it’s a long walk, and your mother must—,”

“Mommy dearest is out of town this weekend,” definitely a smirk now, “Something about a French fashion show—and the models to go with it.” Clark has finally separated enough so that he’s only tethered to Cat’s hand, his cheek pressed into her arm. But she’s looking at you, and her eyes have to be emerald, because you’ll swear until the yellow sun explodes that they sparkle.

Her voice is so quiet you can only just make out her words, and the smile to go with it, “It’s just us, and the little heathen here.”

Three years ago, you crashed on earth with only the knowledge that you would protect your cousin with your dying breath. You’d keep him safe, and out of harm; from horrible truths, and ruining lies. You’d do your best. Whatever that was.

Three years ago, all you had was an apology in your chest and a promise on your tongue. You’d protect him; but who’d protect you?

The answer then, is the same as it is now—you’re protector doesn’t have super strength, or freeze breath, or heat vision. She’s made of hard edges, and a brilliant mind—she’s no-nonsense, and seems to have a soft spot just large enough for you and your cousin.

On the nights you remember Krypton, you sometimes wake up to worried green eyes, and it’s so much easier to keep that _I’m sorry_ inside when Cat pushes your blonde hair away from your face, and whispers quietly, “it’s just a dream, supergirl.”

It isn’t, but on those nights it’s almost alright.


	2. snap shot 02. ( 1, 13, 15 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _But Kara—oh, Kara. She tumbled into your life gracelessly, a thousand and a half apologies on the tip of her tongue, but you’d been snared by the skylines in her eyes. Carefully crafted constellations and imploding stars had nothing on the blue of Kara’ eyes._

* * *

The boy who you have by the hand is oblivious, prying at the gold of your rings while carelessly shoving his free thumb into his mouth. The dark haired boy had been sprinting toward the rushing traffic, and you’d only just caught him by the hand at the curb. Dropping your purse to the street with the effort.

“I-I’m so sorry— _so_ , I’m—he—I looked away for one— _zhehd awuhkh, ihe_ — _Kal-El_ —Clark.” She’d gone to her knees, clasping the boy—Clark—at the cheeks, rubbing the little spot of dirt that he’d gotten from rubbing his face. You don’t know what language she’d been speaking—you have a tutor in three, and none of the words ping as familiar. She’s tall—easily a head taller than you—but there’s something young about the curve of her cheeks, how her glasses sit large and slightly crooked on the bridge of her nose. And yet—something infinite about her eyes.

“You should mind your child better,” it’s easy to look down your nose at people; they simper and skitter away, downturn their eyes and slump their shoulders. But if anything, acknowledging her seemed to straighten that malleable spine of hers—looking up at you with the boy’s head tucked under her chin. That was when you’d seen her eyes—behind thick lenses, yes—and you’d tripped like a drunken star through the interstellar dust caught in her lashes.

“Thank you,” earnest, sincere, so— _genuine_. It was something you aren’t familiar with in the environment you live within, filled with liars of opportunity. You’d seen men and women bend over backwards with falsehoods on their tongues, simply because it made their already easy lives _easier_. “He—the sounds—he likes—how cars sound.” The way she clutches at the boy— _Clark,_ you remind yourself again—makes it seem as though she believes he will vanish. Simply peter off into the afternoon pollution of National City. She still hasn’t gotten up, but you have to look away because the reason you’d been in such a rush is currently marching down the street with his Aeropostel swagger and accompaniment of mindless minions.

You’d been dating Jack Ellis for the better part of the school year—even if you are terribly annoyed at clichés, it had made sense at the time. His father was your mother’s editor, Jack was in Future business leaders with you, and was the star on the track team—varsity three years early. You’d been able to overlook his self-involved personality because he was charming just often enough that you felt like it would be _more_ effort to break his fragile ego, and his black little heart. That is, until he thought it prudent to boast to his friends about sexual relations that had not happened—and now, never would.

You’d promptly upturned your iced tea into his lap, and stormed out of the restaurant, ignoring the flustered maître de, and slapping your palm against the frosted glass door. Furious, would probably be accurate a description for how you felt—but your face never registered more than vaguely annoyed; a lesson taught by your mother. _Women have to be careful, dear; be too emotional and you’ll be labeled a bitch_. Jack has a sneer pulled across his lips, you can see where his knuckles have gone white at his sides, and you take an involuntary step back—his temper something else you’d been able to overlook.

Until now.

“Get back here, Cat.” Even with the loud traffic, and the bustle of people, you can hear the teenage boy’s anger, “We’re gonna have a talk about manners.” You don’t have a chance to take another step away, even if it would have brought you into the street, because his hand clamps down like iron around your upper arm.

“Your lack thereof?” You snipe, trying in vain to pull your arm free. “Let go, Jack.”

“You think you’re so high and mighty,” you feel the press of his fingers, and the hiss of his warm breath against your ear—smelling just faintly like scotch; he’d obviously tucked into his father’s stash before going out. “Someone needs to take you down a peg.” His little minions are snickering—four oddly shaped boys with unfortunate faces—and you feel a flush of humiliation hook into the fury and fear lingering in your blood.

But he’s pushed away—his fingers loosening with surprise as he stumbles back four or five steps—unable to get his footing from the shock. If anything he looks angrier, but your vision is blocked by golden hair and slouched shoulders. The shirt is actually just a Hanes undershirt, a few holes lingering near the collar, letting little slips of tanned skin peak through—it is too large, and sits awkwardly, nearly hanging off one shoulder.

“I don’t think she wants to talk,” soft, unsure, but there’s something—tensile about her voice. Like a tuned violin string—plucked and vibrating, getting higher, and higher until it’s just right. Her hands are opened—fingers stretched wide, like she’s afraid to make a fist—like it might be her undoing. Where Jack is tense with anger, vibrating with it—this golden girl is tense with something else—not fear, not exactly—but _something._

“And if I cared about your opinion, I would have asked,” angrier, spitting the words, “This is why I don’t come to this side of town; too many low-lifes.” Jack’s stepping closer again, leaning those broad shoulders forward, like somehow the momentum will carry him straight through this girl. You want to pull her away, tell her that you can take care of yourself—and you can—but she doesn’t give you the chance. Half a step—barely anything at all, and Jack stops—five small fingers spread wide against his chest, holding him back, and he stumbles like he’s walked into a brick wall.

He goes to swipe the girl’s hand away, but she doesn’t move—doesn’t flinch. You feel something to your side, and it’s the boy—Clark—watching with wide blue eyes, his thumb still in his mouth. He’s pressed into your side, his ruddy little face resting on your hip, while his free hand curls into your shirt.

“Please,” this girl of iron says, voice still too soft, free hands still spread wide, though it is slowly curling—fingers tucking in one, by one, by one, until she’s made a fist. You can almost see the vibration now, how it starts in her forearm, and trips up her arm and into her shoulders—and finally back down her spine. “Walk away.” A plea, even though Jack’s still pawing at the hand against his chest like a child would a parent—unable to remove the restraint.

“You’re not worth it, Cat.” He spits, leaning back and away, slapping at the hand that had stopped him as he does—this time the arm gives, and falls back to her side. “Not even for a pity fuck,” As he storms off, your eyes haven’t left the girl—how she breaths deep, settling back into her bones, before turning around. She starts at your toes—working her gaze up until she settles on the boy wrapped around your legs—but the time it takes her to make eye contact let’s you observe her more thoroughly.

She’s not dirty, but there’s something _rumpled_ about her appearance, something worn and faded about her Walmart blue jeans, knock off Converse and undershirt. The knapsack you hadn’t seen before at her feet is bare thread and stained, the arm of a stuffed animal sticking haphazardly out of the half-zipped compartment. You know what homeless looks like—though this girl pulls it off well—but you see it in the dirt under her nails, and the limp look to golden hair. She’s your age—maybe younger by a year or two.

You hadn’t really paid much mind to the boy before, but you see the hints lingering on him too—but there’s the scent of soap to his hair, and a meticulous shine to his nails. This girl’s obviously determined to care for him, even if she can’t for herself. Mother and son? It isn’t unheard of, but it still seems _wrong_. You’re intrigued.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you say, sounding affronted, and the girl flinches. Like she’s afraid of you, and not the two-hundred pound boy she’d just stopped.

“You didn’t—I—,” she stumbles, rubbing the back of her neck, glancing away, before seeming to find herself, and looking back at you. Meeting your eyes for the first time on purpose. “You didn’t have to ask. He was being a—being a jerk.” She says the words like a fluent foreigner might—slowly, and carefully.

She says something quietly in that language—“ _Zhgam ukep_ , _Kal-El_.”—her words smoother, stronger, and you know this—whatever it is—is her native tongue. The boy takes a moment, before nodding tiredly and leaning away from you—flowing toward this girl like she is the sun, and he is simply caught by her gravitational pull. His face presses into her legs, and tan fingers immediately start carding through his hair.

“I’m Cat,” you don’t know why you introduce yourself, you don’t know why you extend your hand, why you ignore the people tossing dirty looks your way for standing in the middle of the sidewalk unmoving—but you do. And you’re Cat Grant—no one can second guess you—not even yourself.

“Kara—,” she’s taken your hand, and stumbles, but then smiles—and _God_ her smile—small, and slight, but so warm. So genuine. She’s deciding something, before lifting slumped shoulders in something of a shrug, “Just Kara, I guess.”

No last name—interesting.

Kara lets go of your hand, and you stop yourself from wiping it on your skirt, as she put it on the boy’s lower back. “This is Clark.”

You can’t help yourself, “Your son?”

She blinks, blue eyes wide, and shakes her head—vehemently—all the while pressing the boy closer. “My cousin.”

Cousin?—Interesting.

“I’m going to buy you, and your cousin, dinner.” You say—because Cat Grant doesn’t ask.

“You don’t have to—really—I was just—,” Kara says, her feet nearly shuffling with uncertainty. You just look at her, quietly, impassively, and it takes only moments before she’s swallowed her words, stopped her stuttering, and is simply nodding.


	3. snap shot 03. ( 2, 14, 16 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _If anyone could count all the stars in the sky; it’d be Kara. One by one, and then a million at a time._  // Prompt from randomthingsthatilike123.

* * *

Your mother stops asking about the juice in the fridge, and the takeout bags in the garbage—she’s a baleful wind sweeping through the house once in a while; bringing a chill with her that has nothing to do with the weather. Just often enough to comment on your weight—or hair—or pronunciation. She’d speak only in French, knowing it was your worst language, and then deride you for your lack of conjugation—you want to write in _English_ , you could care less about how bad your French is.

But it’s the weeks she vanishes to Europe—or the Hamptons—or Fiji—that you cherish, because that means you can shrug out of tight skirts and unnecessarily laced shirts, and wear what you want. The shirt Kara had gotten you for your birthday is your favorite—some cotton blend that is softer than it should be, but she’d gotten it from New York City—and she’d smiled shyly when handing it over, murmuring how she _didn’t get a chance to wrap it_. It was maroon, faded and soft, with _Hell’s Kitchen_ scrawled across the front—a small fist logo on the back near the collar, with a neatly printed address and phone number.

But the real gift had been what was inside the shirt—the cotton edges folded delicately and with thought around a journal. The edges crisp, but the binding and cover pliant—soft leather, with a string to pull around it to keep it closed. It was weathered, and old, and _perfect_. She was apologizing, and looking at the ground, and you would swear your heart had tripped and fallen, because you’d never—it was _perfect_. She’d squeaked when you pulled her into a hug—stammering and willowy—and it makes it hard to remember that she’d stopped a grown boy with a single hand, because for you Kara’s so _soft_. Bending into you and around you without words.

It's weeks like this one, when your mother has been gone all weekend—she’ll be gone until Thursday—and you’re prepping for Advanced Placement mathematics. Your teacher is a Harvard alcoholic, and your private school had gotten him cheap—smart men do stupid things sometimes—but he couldn’t seem to grasp that high-schoolers weren’t as fascinated by mathematical theorems as he was. He talked about algebra like it could solve world hunger, or stop the refugee crisis—when in fact, all it did, was give you a headache.

Kara sits across from you—her chin resting in her palm, one of your pencils grasped between her fingers—doodling ideally in one of your notebooks. It looked like the Emerald City from Wizard of Oz—large monolithic spires of fractured crystal, springing upward toward an overcast sky. Though—you don’t think Oz had fissures—the ground of her doodled world looked like it was going to shake itself apart. Plates shifting, mountains crumbling—you look up to see how her eyes are dark, and her brows furrowed.

“Kara?” And like that it’s gone—that intensity, that shiver in her fingers—it pulls back like the tide, spilling back into the ocean, mixing and sinking, and floating. She looks at you like no one else—like she’s always seeing you for the first time—like she can’t believe it. She looks at Clark the same way—the boy currently running around the house with a red sheet tied around his neck, making absurd _whooshing_ noises and _pew pew_ laser sounds. “What’re you drawing?”

Because whatever she’s drawing has to be more interesting than your ridiculously difficult maths homework; you’ve only done three problems, and you know they’re wrong.

“Nothing important,” she surmises, tucking the pencil into her fist and carefully closing the notebook, sliding it back toward you—you don’t think she realizes that you don’t use that notebook; that you only bring it out so that she has someplace to draw. Kara looks at your maths like it’s just marks on the page—no recognition—until there is. She’s absently chewing on a carrot stick, pointing toward the page with the eraser.

“You’re solving for angular distance, not _hausdorff_ distance,” she demurs, still reaching far enough that her eraser can just barely remove your dark marks—you’d been pressing a little hard—and then turning it about, and lightly tracing letters and numbers with the point—they’re wobbly, and shaking, but you can make out what they are.

“The what and the who?” Slouching back, you press the balls of your palms into your eyes until you see colored dots. “I want to _write_ , Kara; why is this hedonistic troglodyte torturing me? I don’t need to know how to triangle a square, or how to find the _angular distance_.” You know your whining—but you don’t understand maths, you don’t connect with numbers and circles, and little crooked _x_ ’s. But Kara does—and she always explains it to you.

And that’s why you always wait until she’s sitting at the table to bring it out; not because she helps you—though that helps—but because it seems to be the only thing that can get her around the table. To have her sit directly next to you, leaning in so that she could explain what you were missing—you didn’t always get it; alright, you very rarely got it—but she never loses patience with you. She nudges her shoulder against yours when you _do_ get a right answer all on your own—and that small _something_ lingering in your chest swells and expands, and hooks warm little fingers into your bones and blood.

“Do you understand, _bysh_?” You don’t know what it means, but you like it when she calls you that. She’s leaning forward, her cheek resting on her bicep, curled toward you while she explains some concept or another—she knows you’re only half listening, but she does it anyway.

“No.”

“Want me to explain again?”

“No.”

She smiles, “Alright.” Pushing the little blue booklet around, she looks up, “Is this part of your homework?”

Kara’s writing little symbols and notes on the extra pamphlet of paper that the teacher had given to everyone in the class—it looked like nothing you’d learned, and it hadn’t been mandatory, so you’d planned on ignoring it. “Extra credit,” which you could use, “A fact or something.”

“A proof,” she’s writing—and writing—and writing, and looking at what she’d scrawled. It was symbols, and markers, and numbers—even a picture or two—and you can only blink. “This is a mathematical proof.” Sliding the booklet over to you—pencil and all—you marvel at the awkward little letters, the misspelled words in the margin, and the double circled answer.

* * *

 

You hand in your assignment at the beginning of class before everyone sits down to take their midterm—you can’t help glancing up every few moments to see how the teacher reactions; not that you can tell which one’s yours, but there’s only four or five blue booklets with the assignments. You don’t hear his small gasp twenty minutes later, because you’d decided to focus your mathematically challenged brain on your test—you’d studied for _weeks_ , to pass this test. It was truly ruining your GPA.

“Miss Grant?” Your teacher asks, quietly, but with a hint of annoyance; “when you’re finished, please come speak to me.” Swallowing, you duck your head and continue the text—until you’ve decided that you’ve double guessed yourself often enough. Dropping the test onto his podium, you move to stand in front of his large mahogany desk—little trinkets and bric-a-brac scattered about. An African mask, a golden globe, and a marble Dove. His desk is far enough away that even the best eavesdropper wouldn’t be able to hear. Your blue book is open, and his fingers are laced on top of it.

“Miss Grant,” he begins, “I know what the student body thinks of me; _I know_.” _Alcoholic, dead beat, drunk._ You remain unflinching, stoic—something else you’d learned from your mother. “And just as _I know_  you didn’t solve this—it took five men two years to solve this equation.” Your eyes go wide now, your eyebrows hiking—and for the moment you don’t worry about forehead wrinkles.

Scoffing, sitting down on the edge of one of his guest chairs, arms folding unflappably over your stomach. He’s back to looking at the weird math in front of him.

> The \sum_{n} x^n = (1-x)^{-1} for the summation of a geometric series holds also for matrices: f(z) = \sum_{n=0}^{\infty} [L^n]_{ij} z^n = [\sum_{n=0}^{\infty} L^n z^n)]_{ij} =  [(1-Lz)^{-1}]_{ij}. Cramer's rule for the inverse of a matrix is A-1 = det(Adj(A)ij)/det(A) leads to det( Adj(1-z L)ij)/det(1-z L) which can also be written as det( Adj(L-z)ij)/det(L-z).

Something light, and airy, and genuine flickers to life inside you.

“My friend did it,” he’s looking at you like he’d both caught you, and is amazed by you. When he stands up, he towers over your, but there’s nothing intimidating about him, just unsteady, with a crooked smile. You’re getting an idea that this was a difficult problem—one that consumed lives, and ruined careers—and you’d watched Kara casually work through it with no effort. You hadn’t realized how astonishing it was until right now.

Five men? Two years?

“She did it over breakfast,” Pancakes with blueberries and chocolate.

Carrot sticks for a snack.

“Impossible,” he scoffs, thumbing through the pages again; the confidence melts from his face like wax in the summer, one hand raised to his brow to wipe away the perspiration there. The way he looked made it seem _very_ possible, but you just wanted to leave—to walk away, and go home.

“The school has a scholarship open,” he’s musing, out loud, and not really to you. “Where does she go to school?

You blink—you don’t _know_? “I don’t believe she does.” The impossibilities that surround Kara grow, and grow, and grow by the day, until they’re suddenly vines around neck and throat.

“Bring her in,” he says with finality, “I want to meet her.”


	4. snap shot 04 ( 2, 14, 16 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).**   _Cat isn’t stupid—she isn’t oblivious—she sees the things you wish she didn’t. But that is what makes her so—special. She doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, even when that inner journalist trips out into a conversation, she reins herself in with class. You admire so much about her—this human_. // Prompt from randomthingsthatilike123 and redwolfone. (companion piece to **snap shot 03 (cat)**.

* * *

You have to remind yourself that Cat’s hand is a fragile thing—that if you lose yourself for even a moment, there’s the chance that you’ll curl your fingers and shatter her bones. She’d reached under the table to tap your kneecap when you’d started bouncing your leg, jostling the whole table until she’d stopped you. Your senses spilled through the whole school, plowing down hallways and into classrooms—swallowing every vibration with savagery. You hear them all—the volleyball practice in the gymnasium, the pool pump from the basement, the pigeons on the roof, the track team behind the school in the woods.

So many people, so close together—and yet, there’s a _stillness_ , and that is what unbalances you. In the bustle of the city, you lose yourself to the noise, it passes through you, blinks off the edges of your senses and keeps going. In a cacophony, nothing stands out. It is all buzzing white noise—but here, the sounds filter and wait, and lurk in every empty hallway. The clocks, the squeaking wheel on a janitor’s cart, a loose door hinge, the pipes in the walls.

The only things keeping you present are Clark and Cat—you clench your jaw and focus on them, push away those empty spots and the noise that seems to live within them. Clark has pulled books off the shelves, and you’re too consumed with _noise_ to realize he’s carrying way too many—too many for a small human boy, that is—but thankfully Cat sees him before he can drag them off the shelf, and helps him arrange them on the floor in a semi-circle of knowledge. He’d spent ten minutes pointing at pictures, his thumb tucked back behind his teeth while he leaned against Cat’s side. You focus on the soft whisper of breath against her lips when she speaks, the slightly faster thump of Clark’s heart—their hearts grounded you, they keep you in this room.

After, apparently, deciding that Clark was settled enough to amuse himself, Cat had returned to you, sitting beside you with her hands folded in her lap. Her chair squeaked, and her hard soled shoes scuffed.

“Why’re we here?” You ask again, for what feels like the thousandth time, but you need that clarification to stay. That excitement that lives inside Cat, even if it never finds its way fully to the surface—but you know it’s there. Not because of whatever abilities your genetics allows you, but because you know _Cat_.

“Kara,” she says instead of answering, not looking at you, but at Clark instead, “Do you go to school?” She asks things sometimes—offhanded questions that come from out of nowhere, and you know it is because Cat Grant is _smart_. Looking down, you pick at the shirt you’d chosen for today—your neatest one; a pale blue button down with no holes, starched enough at the collar that it hugs the edges of your neck uncomfortably.

“Not anymore,” you’ll never lie to her, _never_ , but you dance around the truth like you were born for it—it sits like meteorites in your blood, like bombshells in your brain. You tell yourself it is because it doesn’t matter—that you can push away your planet’s death, and your unblinking journey through space, and you can start over. You can be Kara—whoever that is. You’d like to find out.

“Why?” Her fingers are wringing, wrapping around themselves as she finally does turn to you, and like a fool you’re snared—a rabbit in a trap, a shuttle in the asteroid belt. You’re on a collision course, and you’re ready to embrace destruction.

“I—can’t,” you have no documentation, you have no one to look after Clark, you have no _family_ —all the things you lack pile upon your shoulders like boulders sliding off the edge of a cliff. You hold them, but they’re getting heavier, and heavier, and heavier. “Who’ll watch Clark?”

She exhales through her nose, nostrils flaring, letting the point settle, “We’re here because my drunk professor thinks you should get a scholarship,”

You pause, “Drunk?”

Waving her hand through the air like she’s simply wiping that point away, properly arrogant—absolutely Cat, “That’s beside the point,” smiling, cheek pressing to her shoulder while looking at you, blinking large green eyes. “Apparently that fact—proof—whatever—you did was impressive, the smarmy bastard gave it to us just so that we felt stupid. Imagine his surprise when I walk in with the answer wrapped up all nice and cozy.”

Blinking, you can vaguely remember the proof you’d solved for her—it hadn’t been anything particularly difficult—simple linear formulas—it had seemed like any of the other homework Cat brought home every week. The aspiring writer wasn’t good at math, so you hadn’t thought anything unusual about her needing help. It just wasn’t her strong suit, just like language wasn’t yours—knowing a language clinically was different than speaking it comfortably. You knew definitions, and grammatical notes, but putting them together baffled you—the little things people said that made them sound _right_.

No—made them sound _human_.

You had the same trouble with French and German—there was just something _off_ about how it sounded when you spoke.

“So he just wants me to,” you pause, “do mathematics?” _Click, click, click_ —a metal tipped shoe clipping down the hall, you’d heard it for the last ten minutes, but you’d ignored it—but it’s close now, right outside the door. You hear a man whisper _keep it together_ to himself, before pushing the double doors open brashly—letting them spring away and bounce against the precariously filled book shelves. He smells harshly of alcohol, and it burns the inside of your nostrils, and only the quick retreat of Cat’s hand keeps you from reacting worse.

“You’re the girl then?” You can only nod—more a bobble, but your fingers are too busy straitening your already straight shirt. “Alright,” A large leaflet of paper is tossed onto the table before you—in smacks down with a _bang_ , that sounds like a gunshot going off inside your ear. Scaling back your senses, you look between him and the paper, and the confusion must settle easily on your face

“Well, go on then,” he dismisses you, eyes narrowed, breath feral, “Solve it.”

You feel dreadfully like a performing monkey, something on display, something unnatural and wrong—it is the way he looks at you, hazy eyes bright and hungry. You can’t bring yourself to look away, it is that feral itch at the back of your neck that warms you before even your ears pick up danger—it tingles and pricks, and keeps to steady.

“Can you explain it?” It is Cat that tears you away from the staring contest—she’s pulled the paper around in front of her, and confiscated the only pencil on the table. “You know how I am with math.” Flipping the front page over carelessly, she huffs and looks to you—green eyes steady, smile small and sure—she’s breathing carefully, and deliberately until you’ve matched her.

In, out, in, out.

Nodding, you murmur to her quietly, keeping an ear out for the professor, who has relegated himself to his high backed chair across the room, looking wiltingly at Clark playing on the floor. This isn’t any harder than the last—it is just different—you work through the formulas like one might a knot of rope. Working it gently at first, until the loops simply unravel themselves. Cat’s eyes brighten, but there’s nothing _wrong_ or _hungry_ about them—they’re gentle, and soft, and warm; a whole dictionary of words she would never tolerate you calling her out loud.

So when you’re finished, instead of leaning away from her, instead of looking to the man tapping his finger against the table, you ask, “Do you understand?”

Cat’s eyes crinkle at the edges, “No.”

“Want me to explain again?”

She closes the book softly, “No, _bysh_.”

Hearing the Kryptonian fall off her tongue is a slip of quicksilver down your spine, like being punched in the chest and knocked flat—her tongue doesn’t wrap around it right, there’s a hiss of forgotten air missing. Or maybe Krypton’s density just made the words _seem_ heavier. But you’re smiling—a fool undoubtedly—but you feel lighter than even Earths measly gravity can explain.

“Why’re we here?”

Cat looks at you this time like she really understands the question—you have no trouble ignoring the professor thumbing through your work loudly—because something inside this whip smart girl wilts, and you ache for her.

“He said there was a scholarship,” she explains, smoothing down her skirt, clearing her throat so that she is the picture of good breeding, “You could come to school with me; we could—,”

You blink—Cat Grant does _not_ stumble over her words.

“—we could spend more time together.” She’s not looking at you, and you see her jaw tense, and release, surely grinding her teeth together as she tends to do. “We wouldn’t have to wait for mother to go away, or loiter at the library all day.”

Your heart beats, and swells, and bleeds colors into the cavern of your chest—drowning you in delight, suffocating you in mirth. She refuses to look at you with those too green eyes, but you can’t stop the smile on your face—you realize you hadn’t _stopped_ smiling since she’d spoken Kryptonian.

But as little children do—Clark takes it upon himself to flop against Cat’s side—his red sheet half tucked around his dark head. Blinking bright blue eyes up at his favorite human. “ _Bysh_ ,” he chirps, “Kitty, I didn’t know you know.” He’s whispering, because you’d told him it was a _secret_ —he doesn’t know what the language is called, he doesn’t know he’s from a dead planet, but he knows that he’s different—special—you’re only a child yourself, and you don’t have the words yet to tell him the truths that will hurt.

He’ll never be alone, because he’ll have you. When you do tell him about Krypton, he’ll be able to burrow into your shoulder, and feel your arms hold him tight—he’ll never have this hollow place inside, like you do. An echo chamber that lives in your dreams, parroting back the groans of a dying planet, the cut off shriek of rocket boosters, the crack of glass as spires of crystal shatter.

While you’d been looking inward, Clark has clambered up into Cat’s lap, sat comfortably across her, his finger twirling through her blonde hair. She’s not like this with other children—you’ve seen her face of annoyance when she passes parks—but it aches so _good_ when you see her with your cousin.

“Of course, I know,” she’s warding away his second hand—the one that had been in his mouth—and is only mildly successful, because it curls into her shirt. “But we’re keeping it a secret,”

You suppose she isn’t _just_ Clark’s favorite human.

There’s a slap of a moist hand against wood, and you jolt upward—chair kicked back, while Cat just cocks an eyebrow. The professor—you really should know his name—is pointing at you, a little spittle on his bottom lip, but intelligence in his eyes. There’s wonder stretched across his face, and you remember how Cat spoke of him—a man in a love affair with numbers—and settle a little. He’s harmless, if ravenous with excitement.

“This is splendid,” he gasps, his hand raising to push at his thick dark hair, “Superb.” He is breathing like he’s run somewhere, even though he’s only been seated—his chest gulping down big gulps of oxygen, until he calms. Until something calms, and he’s falling back into his chair—leaving you the only person standing. The tips of Cat’s fingers brush your back, and you relax.

“I—thank you?” Biting your lip, and pushing your glasses a little higher up your nose—you started wearing them from almost the beginning. Thinking they would hide whatever differences people might notice—you’d hardly known what to make of humanity then. “It really isn’t anything—hard. Not that it isn’t hard—you should—I mean—I’ll.”

Sit down. You’ll sit down.

But he just smiles, seeming more human, more kind, more something—and you hear Cat murmuring to Clark ' _see, little heathen? No one can resist your cousin’s charm_.' And now he’s giggling, Cat’s smirking smugly and the professor’s smiling.

 _Rao._ This girl was going to _ruin_ you.

“I have a colleague that would be very interested in this,”


	5. snap shot 05. ( 1, 13, 15 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _Some lost boys don’t live in Neverland; their jungles are made of cement and chrome, their villain more vague than pirates and crocodiles_. // Prompt by quakekru.

* * *

At night, you lay in the mess of blankets you’ve collected, enough that you’re both drowning in fabric, Clark giggling and tossing, not minding it in the least—every night is a sleepover. His little ear pressed against the bird’s wing of your collarbones, listening to the quick beat of your martian heart. Quicker than a human’s, louder, firmer. It knocks against the insides of your ribs with assurance that you’re still alive. His little hand curls into the fabric of your shirt, keeping you close, like he’s afraid you might go, even though he’d hardly known a day without you. You’re his mother, his playmate, his caretaker, his cousin, his sister—you’re his everything, and what you’re truly worried for is the day he might no longer need you.

But that day isn’t today.

“P’pan?” He asks sleepily, his eyes already closing, bricks on his lids, but he shakes his little head vehemently when you don’t move immediately. Promising that he won’t go to sleep until he had his bedtime story—regardless of the fact that he’s nearly asleep already. Shuffling back against the cement wall, you reach into your knapsack for the ratty children’s book that you’ve had since the very beginning of your life on this planet. _Peter Pan and Wendy_. The corner is torn apart, but the binding has been pieced back together carefully. Creaking it open, you open to the first page; this one has no pictures, though you’ve found those versions too—this is his favorite.

You know it is the vibration in your chest—the valve in your lungs that humans lack, that _whoosh_ that lingers in your Kryptonian, that bleeds into your English if you aren’t careful. Like air being let out of a balloon, the slow—methodical—release of air, which never ends. He listens for it in your chest when you read, closes his eyes and waits. You’d spent an entire evening with your ear pressed to his chest because he was worried his _whoosh_ didn’t work because his accent wasn't like yours—he sounded human, no, he sounded _American_. It was the slight differences that even you had trouble picking up on, but Clark knew—he saw them as glaring differences that unsettled him.

So you read to him—slowly, all night—even when you grew tired, you’d keep reading to him as he slept. Letting that familiar _whoosh_ lull his dreams, keep them peaceful and deep. You say it is for Clark, for his peace of mind—but you are selfish at your core, you read because when you’re focused on the words, you don’t have to think of red skies and craggy crumbling mountains. You don’t have to think of what a planet sounds like when it dies—like _nothing_ —how quiet space is as everything that you are shatters into unsalvageable pieces.

In the morning, he’ll stretch—elbow you hard in the ribs, knee you in the hip—and roll on top of you, press his little face against yours. You’ll wipe the little crusties away from the corners of his eyes as he yammers away about what he wants to do that day—where he wants to _go_. You bring him to work with you—you have no choice—but your employer knows that he doesn’t slow you down at all, that he skips happily at your side as long as you hum or sing for him. Watching Clark climb up the pipes that line one of the basement’s walls makes you roll your eyes—if you had to worry about tetanus shots you’d be a nervous wreck with him.

Stretching while walking into the small washroom, you look at yourself in the mirror—you’ve been on earth for only a year and you hardly recognize yourself. The yellow sun has lightened your hair, bleached the darkness from your curls, bleached away one of the few things you have to remember your mother by. Your eyes are hollowed at the edges, but bright—flitting with thing that simply hadn’t existed on Krypton. Squeezing your eyes shut, yelling for Clark to hurry up and get ready—you couldn’t’ be late, _again_ —and then shoved your toothbrush in your mouth, brutalizing your molars a little more vigorously than usual.

It only takes twenty minutes to get your cousin squared away and hopping up the stairs into the bookstore above—the  _Bruised Apple_ —the owner, Mr. Callaghan, had hired you a few months ago to keep an eye on the store, a reminder of the woman he loved, and lost. He allowed you to sleep in the basement—there’s even been a bed with a frame before Clark had bounced it to pieces. Stacked on the floor are all the books you have to put away for the morning—there is no order, but you don’t mind wandering up and down the aisles, scanning all the titles. Clark putters behind you, a stack of books in his arms while he hops, and balances on one foot—almost tipping over, before he catches himself.

When the last book from the stack is put away, you look down to see your cousin looking up at you with those big blue eyes of his. Blinking sweetly while he lifts his arms to be picked up. Hoisting him up onto your hip, he curls against you, thumb already in his mouth. “Fly?” He murmurs around his thumb, tucked under your chin.

“I have to go get my fairy dust,” the glitter that you’d picked up at the dime store on the corner last week. The purple and gold glitter fine and probably toxic.

When Clark had woken up from a nightmare a few months ago, floating a foot above the bed, he’d panicked—and so had you. You’d grown comfortable with your abilities, you folded them into who you are _now_ , and didn’t worry too much beyond that. But Clark didn’t understand why he was different—just that he was—so you’d told him that you were both lost boys. Cradling that scared boy to your chest—only a child yourself—you had felt suffocated with what had been expected of you.

Your parents had folded you away and shot you into oblivion.

“We’re lost boys, Clark,” you’d murmured that night, lips lost in the dark of his hair, “Every lost boy can fly in Neverland.” He’d pulled the book against his chest and blinked up at you, fingering the pages he couldn’t read yet. Running little fingers across them and nodding—solemn in a way that made him look like your uncle. He’d grow into being a handsome man.

“Peter Pan?” Was all he had asked, pointing at you with those doe eyes. And you’d nodded, a shattered mirror’s smile cracking along the edges because sometimes you wished it was true—that you held storybooks inside your heart and not a dead planet.

So you played pretend with him—you were Peter Pan, and he was your lost boy. He couldn’t tell because Captain Hook could be anywhere, chasing down the streets in slick black sports car or walking through the park in a bright blue wind breaker. An orphan by whatever flavor you chose. You’d almost weened him off the storybook life, until he’d met Cat Grant—the perfect Wendy Darling, the girl who would keep Peter Pan in Neverland forever.

Reaching down under the counter, you picked up the little velvet pouch that you’d put the glitter in—it had originally been Mr. Callaghan’s dice bag, but he’d relinquished it. Opening it enough so that Clark could reach his little hand in, could grab a pinch of glitter—just a little, because you told him how far you had to travel to get more—and he held it excitedly in his fist. Cinching the bag, you tuck it back into its hiding place.

“Mr. Callaghan,” you call into the office behind the counter, and hear a soft _yes?_ In response, “I’ll be back in a few; need anything to be picked up?” A man—seventy-three years old and smiling frailly—walked out with a folded piece of notepaper that he promptly handed to you. Address scrawled on another slip, though you knew this place by heart. Nodding with a wave, you tuck the note into your pocket, and wait for Clark to grab your satchel from the hat rack and loop it over your head.

Stepping into the alleyway behind the bookstore, you let the steel door shut slowly and glance both ways—making sure no one was taking out trash at the Thai place, or the bodega. Clearing your throat, you look down at Clark who can hardly contain himself, “Alright, lost boy, air’s all clear?” He bobs his head enthusiastically before tossing the glitter into the air—you make sure not to breath for a few seconds while it settles over you. In your hair, in the folds of your clothes, but Clark’s giggling and thrashing in your arms.

Tensing, saying goodbye to the ground, you throw yourself into the sky—breathing out the weight you keep inside that keeps your feet on the ground. Your satchel flaps against your side as you chase through the clouds, dancing through the nimbus with the sound of a laughing toddler in one ear, and the howl of the wind in your other. National City looks different from the sky—small and sprawling—insignificant in ways that you know it isn’t. Rolling your shoulders and shifting your spine to curve into a spiral—you know you’re high enough that no one will see; dipping in and out of clouds swiftly, pushing forward and plunging quickly through the clouds and back toward. You scanned the ground, making sure no heads were upturned, and landed three-point in another alley clear across National City.

Your cousin breaks free, flinging his arms out wide and spinning in circles, making _whoosh_ sounds, and the red cape he always had tied around his neck flaps dramatically behind him. Two fists forward, he zooms past you twice while you push fingers through your hair, tucking the fly aways back into your curls. Snagging him by the cape as you walk out of the building toward the prestigious publishing house Mr. Callaghan’s brother owned—you unrumpled the note you’d shoved haphazardly into your pocket. The writing was fragile and light, but you could make it out easy enough.

_Pick up the newest releases; and whatever the kid wants._

Smiling, and breathing deep, pulling National City into your lung, you swat at your jacket once more, making sure all the glitter had been smacked away, not even bothering to try and catch Clark. The publishing house was pretty familiar with the two first-name-only children that were sent once or twice a week to the business side of National City. All the biggest authors were published out of this building—it bolstered some of the brightest awards there were to give. You don’t know exactly what half of them were for, but you figured idols in gold were pretty unanimous.

“Hey, Kara,” the front desk secretary says, “Hello to you too, sweetheart.” Clark tucks his face shyly against your leg, but reaches out a hand for the high-five that was being offered.

“Mr. Callaghan sent me over to pick up some releases?”

She sighs, “I don’t know how I feel about a small girl like you carry all those books clear across the city.”

You smile.


	6. snap shot 06. ( 12, 24, 26 )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten year jump; a lot has happened. I'm going back, but I'm going to be jumping around chronologically, which is why I added ages into the chapter titles; Clark's age, Kara's age, and Cat's age. Just so you can keep the line of events in order, maybe once I get enough posted, I'll rearrange them into chronological order, but for now, since I'm just doing idea prompts, they're going to be all over the place. Sorry, this one got a little long.

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**.  _Everyone has that person that crosses their mind during the darkest nights, during the hardest times, when everything is crumbling faster, and faster, and faster, and you have no way of slowing time. No way of stopping the slow decent. You lie to yourself, the hardest of things, saying you don’t need help, that you can do it all on your own. The truth is? You can’t._

* * *

“Yeah, Grant, keep convincing yourself of that.” Kristopher Arnold—one part douche bag, one part journalist, and his two remaining parts were curse words that you don’t like to use as often as you find yourself using them. He’s leaning over his raised knee, foot on his chair, tie at half-mast; it is around noon, and there is nothing appealing about Iraq in the summer—you can feel sweat in places you try to pretend you can't sweat. But there is nothing glamorous about this hole in the wall—five desks, covered in papers and photographs, two oscillating fans in the corners blowing hot air like it would help. It didn’t.

“I don’t have to convince myself of anything,” you’re putting your camera in the bag, buffering it with papers—the soft leader bound notebook Kara had given you ages ago—ten years?—tucked firmly along the side, as it always was. Lifting a boot onto your own chair, you tuck your recorder into the side, sitting it flush against your ankle. “Saabiq reached out to me; he could clearly see which one of us was worth his time.” You’re smirking, you know you are, but the exhalation of anger that consumes Kristopher is worth every drop of sweat dripping down your spine.

“He’s poaching you, Grant,” there’s something smug about him now, something off-setting and utterly _male_. “He’s not going to be meeting you at the Shatt al-Arab, because he’s meeting me here to give me an exclusive.” Your heart drops like a stone in a clear pond— _plunk_ —and it was gone. Dropping your bag on your desk, you turn to face him, shoving hands against the solid width of his chest.

“You imbicile,” you hiss, “You did not give a dodgy, amoral unknown our set up.” Another shove, and you’re not the only one bearing down on him now; your colleagues are moving closer, concern flickering across their faces. You’ve been here since the bombs started dropping—slipping across the border with a few questionable caravans, anything to get the story to the people back home. To the broadcasters salivating for the warzone footage.

You’ve been here since the girl who was your— _something_ —had turned out to be the biggest liar on this planet, and you’d walked away. She hadn’t chased you, your name sitting in her mouth in ways you’ll never forget—she’d said your name so quietly, like it ached in her very teeth to say it—but she’d given you room, given you space. Sent anonymous letters, and lunches, and flower to your job because she wasn’t brave enough to show up at your apartment—and you hadn’t been able to stomach the distance, not when the only thing up holding it had been your anger, and her fear.

So you volunteered to go to a warzone—dramatic—and you’d been here since; slipping in and out under cover of darkness, and wrapped shawls. This converted shop had acted like a home away from home; four cots in the back offices, shutters over the windows, and you had managed to keep it off anyone’s radar for _months_. Been able to meet up with informants across the river, in old palaces and besides thousands of years of history—and this _idiot_ had given that away to sooth his ego, to be a salve to his male pride.

You are rather aware that stringing someone up from their thumbs is perfectly normal on this side of the world, but you aren’t given the chance because something with such concussive force that the from wall simple _bows_ pushes you away. The front wall is crumbling, windows shattering like candy glass as you groan from where you’ve landed in the back. You try to move, and wince—touching your side, your fingertips come away red, and you feel another stone drop in your stomach— _plunk_ —the sunlight is pouring in from the now open window front, and there’s men with assault rifles. Shouting to each other, aiming down the road and firing.

You want to pull the damned filing cabinet slider out of your side, but you know—from the rudimentary emergency medicine you learned to come here—that it is currently the only thing keeping your blood inside. Wrapping your hand around the bottom, you shuffle up the wall until you can clearly see over the upturned desk—see the men in dark colors, their faces shrouded, rifle butts rocking against their shoulders as they duck behind road side planters and cement walls. More shudders rock the building, making cement flakes and paint chips cough into the air—hanging there like a warning.

So much is happening—time drones on and away—because you’re too busy pressing your fingers against the pulse points of colleagues, breathing a sigh of relief whenever you find one. One girl—her name Rebecca, you know it even if you never called her it—isn’t so lucky. She’s crumpled oddly against the wall, and when you feel how cool she is to the touch—your hand jerks away, and you feel sickness burn the back of your throat. Dead. Her eyes are foggy, looking up like chipped glass, and you have to turn away, have to press yourself against the side of a divider, the palm of one hand pressing into your eye sockets.

There’s so much gunfire happening, but you can only feel the rumble of dropped mortar shells, and the distant tinny echo of military radios. The world is slanted, and crooked, and _wrong_. Different men now are filtering in from alley ways and from darkened businesses. Their bodies angling along the sides of building and looking to move down the street—but a mortar must hit directly in front of them, because they stumble backwards, one even rolling over his shoulders and onto his stomach. Chips of concrete and gravel kicking up into the air.

And then—someone’s just suddenly there.

They are shorter than all those gathered, their face obscured by black cloth, their head covered in a charcoal gray hood; hands spread wide at their sides as they look between the armed men gathered. People are shouting, in at least three languages—and you can’t keep track of it all—but you have just enough mind to find your camera, just beside your cherished notebook, and as your fingers touch it you freeze. Those hands—fingers pressed wide—shoulders curled inward like the person wished to simply curl in on themselves. Lifting the camera free, you find the eye piece and twist the lenses—cosmic blue eyes are shadowed, but unmistakable.

It is without question Kara—the girl who you had run across the world from, because you couldn’t trust yourself to simply stay away. The need itching inside your bones was necessary and unquestionable—whenever you’d see Clark, he’d hint and plead without words—cheeks rosy, and that hint of teenage attitude clinging to him when you walked him home from school—never going inside, but seeing Kara at the window anyway. You had left—because after a few weeks, there was nothing but a stubborn need keeping you from following him in.

And here she is.

Across the globe, dressed in her Brooklyn chic wardrobe.

 _Click_ —you take her picture before you can stop yourself, having pulled the focus back enough to see the men surrounding her. Rifles aimed, faces set in anger—but Kara isn’t moving, her eyebrows pinched in worry, her mouth moving beneath the black cloth, but you can’t hear her. Two men step from a back room—startling you, and making you drop the camera—and the _thud_ of it seems to be like snapping a rubber band. Everyone starts moving. You want to tell Kara to _go away_ , a knife might not hurt her— _apparently_ —but that was leagues different than an AK-47.

 _Pop_ , pause, _pop_. The muzzle flashes, and you’re screaming, and its  _wrong_. Blue eyes snap to you just as the first round smacks her in the shoulder, spinning her enough that the second misses. You're crying—stupid, ugly tears—and you can’t stop the sob; Kara is curled over one hand on the ground, nearly lifted out of her untied light brown hipster boots. Her free hand is pressed to her shoulder, shoulders tense, and then she’s standing—something small and metallic dropped from between her fingers. Glittering in the mid-day sun—in her sweatshirt, there’s a neat little hole where the bullet had hit. But no blood.

Before the bullet she’d pried free hits the ground—she’s moving.

A curled fist going wide, like she still can’t bring herself to hitting these men, instead she wraps fingers around the barrel of his gun and bends it upward. Pushing it out, and away, her elbow hits a second man in the jaw, before turning and hitting a third with the freshly liberated ruined-rifle. They all tumble away like they’ve been hit with something much more impressive than a girl weighing _maybe_ a hundred and twenty pounds. _Pop, pop_ ; more gunfire, and this time when they hit her, she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move with the motion. Takes them quietly, and presses forward—a flash, and blur, and she has another man by the arm.

You don’t realize you’ve moved closer, until you feel the cold metal of a gun barrel against your jaw, urging you to your feet, pushing you back against one of the dividing walls. You don’t make a noise, but the gunman’s attention is more focused on the girl rendering his whole unit useless. They are all either knocked out, or running away—more impressive than the apparent _bulletproof_ aspect, is actually how controlled the violence is. None of the men look dead—their chests rising and falling—but there was something worse about tossing them around like they were simply toys.

Simply not worth more effort.

When Kara sees the gunman behind you, there’s something you’ve never seen in her before—it brings you back to the night that had sent you running—the flicker of something _other_ inside her that was like a switch being tossed. Below the black fabric, her jaw works itself, and then—before you blink—there is no man beside you. He’s being held in place by a curled hand in his uniform, his feet not touching the ground—they kick at the air like’s he’s nothing more than a child, fingers wrapping around the grip on his collar. When he tries to swing the automatic rifle around at a hooded head, it dents and bends, bouncing harmlessly away into what is left of the room.

She hits him once in the jaw, the hold on his collar gone, allowing him to crumble to the floor, a barely booted foot hitting him in the stomach, lifting him off the ground, though his arm seems to have taken the worst of it. He’s at Kara’s feet now, broken, and bleeding, and she’s just—standing there.

You aren’t a proprietor of violence, not in the least, but there is something enthralling about the brutality of the whole thing—dust hanging in the air like a smoke. You’d recognize this person anywhere—the lopsided posture that was both endearing and maddening both, the fingers spread wide like she was afraid to make a fist, and feet that shuffled and shifted more than a stationary person should. You hadn’t seen her in months, hadn’t heard her voice in longer—that knowledge hurts you more than the metal dug into your side. You see how she’s barely holding herself together—shoulders lifting and falling dramatically as you know she’s breathing deeply through her nose, and out through her mouth.

The man who had been thrown away groans on the ground and struggles to stand, his face splashed red with blood, his jaw hanging a little oddly. All this is typical of warzones, you no longer flinch at the sight of blood, no longer look away at the aftermath, but it is the look in his eyes is new—it makes them particularly bright, or maybe that’s just the mask of crimson he wears. He’s afraid, and that fear embodies him in ways you have never encountered. He’s tucking his bad arm against his chest, and scrambling backwards; mindless of the rubble, headless of the damage he’s causing himself.

He just wants to get away from her.

Kara walks forward slowly, her boots worn and untied—like she’d been in a rush—she doesn’t stumble, doesn’t look away. Even with her back facing you, you can see how her head it lowered, the hood cast low across her face. But you can’t look away from her hands, how the fingers curl—one, by one, by one—into tight fists with whitened knuckles. Her entire body is shaking, and she doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to _care_. There’s a single minded determination to her pace, an absence of thought when you know Kara is full of them; mindful, and careful, and kind.

This person is none of those things.

There’s a wild menace about how she steps slowly over the last pile of rubble, the man having backed himself against a shaking wall. She doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach to touch him, and you can see how her hands have flexed again—fingers spread wide, reminding herself that she isn’t clenched fists, isn’t anger and hate, isn’t whoever is standing in front of you.

“Walk away.” You can hardly hear her words, but like a vibration down your spine you remember how she had pressed a deceptively small hand against Jack Ellis’ chest, taut and shaking, fingers beginning to curl. _Walk away_ , she had asked him—and he had. Now, the only thing keeping Kara from doing further damage—is Kara. The man scrambles, pushing along the wall until he’s standing and stumbling from the building, falling into the noon sun, squinting and pulling himself back to his feet. It is impossible to reconcile this man with the firm soldier who had stalked into the building what seemed like only minutes prior.

Pressing a shaking hand against the wall your against, you heave yourself to your feet—little pieces of debris falling from the folds in your shirt, clattering against the ground. It gets her attention. You don’t know how she knows it’s you—you hadn’t given her a chance to explain that night—but suddenly you find familiar blue eyes peering at you from behind golden hair. A black bandana has been pulled up over her nose, leaving what little of her face is exposed shadowed and hard to make out. At least she was careful—as angry as you are, you don’t want some secret government agency to scoop her up and dissect her—if they even _could_.

Eyes that had always been stardust and skylines are suddenly the surface of the moon—luminous, cold, and beautiful. She isn’t blinking, and she hasn’t looked away from you—unmoving from where she stands, half her body cast into the light, the rest swallowed by shadow. More of your co-workers are shaking themselves awake, groaning from where they are pressed under stone, and against walls. The distant _drip_ of the water cooler is your second hand—a measure of time it takes Kara to show life. Even though she looks at you, she’s not seeing anything.

Her hands have gone slack at her sides, boneless and motionless, as she slowly looks back to where the man had last been seen—stumbling away, afraid and broken.

Kara had done that—sweet, kind, genuine Kara.

You see the shake before she realizes, how her arms quiver and her pupils spill outward—wide and afraid—you’d held her through too many nightmares to not see the signs of panic. The kind that closed her throat and wet her eyes. You’re angry—you don’t like that you have to keep reminding yourself—but Kara’s gulping down greedy breaths from behind her mask, her fingers twitching ,and you know she’s about to try and rip it off her face to get a full breath in.

Pushing against the wall, you step over a pile of boxes and books, around a thrown desk, and just as you’re about to reach her, you trip—your movement too sluggish to catch yourself, your world spinning too quickly to brace for the fall—but hands of iron have you by the biceps, are righting you before you can even close your eyes.

And then there’s only Kara.

From this close, you can see the little flecks of gold around her pupils—you’d swear to any judge that you could trace the constellation _Cygnus_ in her eyes—they’re far too wide, pupils threatening to swallow the blue. The black fabric is pulling inward as she gulps for breath, tries to fill her lungs. There’s no fear in your chest, no instinctive flinch—because you know Kara would never hurt you, would never let anything happen to you, which would even explain _why_ she was here—if not the _how_.

“Calm down,” you say firmly, your voice too low for the just rousing reporters to hear; just Kara. “You need to calm down.” You’re counting in your head—keeping a flow to your words, something she could follow, something she could tether herself to—something other than her lack of easy oxygen, and the blood splashed across small shaking hands.

She’s looking at you like you’re the sunrise—blinking owlishly as her shoulders shrug upward to protect her neck, almost shying away from your touch, which is impressive considering it is her hands bracketing your biceps. You relax, or try to, but the pressure of the metal lodged in your side bares its damned teeth and you’re reminded of how much you _hate_ the sight of your own blood. Everyone else can bleed until the end of the world, but you were never meant to see your own blood. You must make some kind of sound—a gasp, or groan, or God help you, a whimper—because her hands have removed themselves, and you miss their warmth for only a moment until they’re pressed into your side.

“Are you alright?” Her voice is muffled by the mask, and as much as you want to hook a finger and pull it down, you know you can’t—a ridiculous hooded sweatshirt, and a flimsy black bandana are the only thing keeping Kara safe. “This looks bad.” She’s on one knee before you, her crown of escaping golden hair even with your stomach as her fingers gently press around the sliding metal in your side—some piece of filing cabinet that hadn’t been too fond of you. Kara’s pupils have constricted, making them look _too_ blue—or maybe that’s just the hazy warble in the air—maybe that’s another one of her super abilities.

Warble-y air.

You’re suddenly on the ground, but you never felt the fall, cradled in arms you feel safe in—color spreading out, and then narrowing down viciously until there’s only the noon sun spilling through shattered windows. “I’m getting you to a hospital,” her voice is in your ear, pressed into your hair like she does with Clark, holding you against her chest, her knee brought up on your other side to keep you secure. “Don’t worry, Cat, don’t worry.” She’s mumbling while hoisting you up into her arms—how had you never noticed how strong she is—your head lulling limply onto her shoulder, your nose pressed into the line of her neck inside the hood.

Your harmlessly egotistical co-worker Kristopher—with a _K_ , he always makes sure to specify—takes that moment upon himself to be unnecessarily dramatic.

Bully for him.

“Hey, stop, put her down!” You thought he was smarter, thought he knew a losing battle when she saw one, but he’s pulling himself to his feet, intent on stopping Kara from taking you. “You can’t just take her!” Your brain rolls on, sending signals down your arm, but nothing happens—only the twitch of a finger, until you can only look up at her with eyes that say _no, don’t_. Not a plea, a warning—super abilities or not, you are Cat Grant, and Kara would be wise to heed your warning.

“She needs a hospital,” her words are coming from someplace in her chest, somewhere deep, because you can feel them vibrate in your cheek where it is pressed into her shoulder. Her arms tighten around you, and it jostles the metal piercing you—you must hiss—because her grip is loosening, and you feel fabric as her cheek presses into yours. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” it’s a quick whisper, a rushed apology filled with apprehension and fear.

“Everything’s fine, Christian,” you chew out, having released the inside of your cheek from where you had been biting it to stay quiet, “Do continue to remain useless.”

“Listen, Grant, I don’t know where you’re getting off being all high and mighty,” he’s talking, but you can only focus on how Kara tenses—you know she doesn’t like how he’s talking, you know how it dig into her skin, and you can only press your nose more firmly against her neck, no other part of your body willing to move, “But that—that— _thing_ just decimated eight guys, and now it’s taking you off to God knows where?”

You hear a crunch as he steps closer—he’s brave, _stupid_ , but brave—and you have no hope of responding, because air is slapping against your cheek, the groan of wind in your ears. Cracking your eyes open, you only see sky, and sun—and far below—ground.

You really wished you had allowed Kara to explain that night.

Apparently she can fly.

Fly.

The next—however long—is a blinking hazy of voices and bright lights— _beep, beep_ —you wonder if there really was a point when someone’s life flashes before their eyes. What would you see? What moment would parade just behind closed eyelids when you felt your heart slow, and your skin grow cold. _Beep, beep_. You’d see Clark’s smile—how he laughed the hardest at the worst jokes; horses, and bars. Chickens, and roads. How he’d press into your side when you sat on the couch to watch television—your arm around his shoulders, his cheek on your arm. _Beep, beep_. You’d see Kara’s eyes—too blue, and too bright. Looking at you like some once in a lifetime astrological event. Stardust and comets. The traced lines between constellations that kept the stars together. The bright fleck of Jupiter or Mars in the sky. _Beep, beep_. You’d feel her lips, how they’d been tentative and chaste, a moment that had been a million moments in the making—a moment that had been torn asunder by haste and fear. By worry and anger.

 _Beep, beep_.

Blinking rapidly, what you see isn’t precious moments, or fluffy clouds—it isn’t eternal damnation, either, so you suppose that’s a plus—but it is the cheap plaster of a hospital ceiling. The monitors beside you chirp and whir with every shift of your body, and when you try to struggle to sit up, there are gentle strong hands there to help you slid back. Lulling your head to the side, Kara looks ridiculous as she is—hood still up, black fabric still across the bridge of her nose. It had seemed menacing in the bright light of day, in the rubble of destruction, but somehow seeing her folded into the uncomfortable chair beside the bed makes it laughable.

So you laugh.

Until the pain in your side is enough to make you stop, you paw at the pain until you feel the thick bandages under your ugly hospital gown. Gentle fingers tangle through yours and remove your hand, pressing it to the mattress you lay on.

“You’ve been out for a while,” Kara murmurs, looking at you, while somehow also being able to look like a frightened-puppy, eyes averted.

You untangle your hand from hers, and without prompting, curl a finger in the top of the black bandana and pull it down to rest around her neck. “I won’t talk to you when you look like you’re about to rob me,” you intone, letting your hand flop down, and she shuffles a little forward. Elbows on her knees, hooded sweatshirt partially unzipped; the top of her face is covered in dirt and soot—likely from the bombs and debris, but the bottom half of her face is devoid of dirt. It’s almost comical.

“Sorry,” you see how her jaw is working, and you know she has more to saw; so you wait. “I was so scared, Cat. That I wouldn’t get to you in time,”

Your lips purse, and your brow furrows—your head hurts, but you can look beyond that, because even though the IV drip seems capable of pain medication, you’re holing out—you want all your faculties for this conversation. “Is that one of your abilities? Knowing where I am?” You say it seriously, and parts of you are rebelling against this _ridiculous_ conversation. Kara only starts, before shaking her head rapidly.

“No, no,” she’s denying, fingers twisting in her lap, “We—the satellites picked up on the bombs before the news did. I—may have illegally filtered through some military channels to figure out you were involved.” Like this is the worst thing she could do— _something illegal_ —when she is a—is a—you don’t even _know_.

Settling against your pillows, you allow the _smallest_ of smirks, “You nerds still playing with the sky?” You don’t know what she’s up to over at Lorde Technologies—the word _classified_ came up way too often—but anything involving that pompous asshole is bad news. You know that Kara and Max seem to have developed some kind of brain trust together when they went all in starting the company, but you had never been able to completely accept the idea that he’d be part of your life—if only through her. “Can’t you do something useful with your ridiculous IQs and money?”

Kara looks down, and consciously separates her hands. “You almost died, Cat.” Quietly, like you aren’t supposed to be able to hear her, but she looks up, and her too blue eyes are wet, and her jaw trembles, and there is nothing in common with the creature that had torn into those men like they were nonentities. “I made you run—and you almost died.” Like the sky was splitting, like every hurricane and tornado lived just below her skin, she trembled, hands worrying, because she didn’t want to reach out—didn’t want the chance that you’d reject her touch.

“You didn’t _make_ me do anything,” it comes out harsher than you mean, and you try to soften the words by reaching toward her—you can’t reach, but she meets your half-way after some effort. “And while I concede it might look like running, to a laymen, this job posting was quiet exclusive.” It had also been quiet exclusive the two months you’d declined the offer—until you’d seen Kara in the window of her apartment when dropping Clark off at home, and you realized you couldn’t trust yourself to stay away. Not without half the world between you.

She’s smiling, that _stupid_ watery smile that makes your heart skip a beat. The room your in is dark, and the blinds are pulled down, you can’t see into the hall, but the open window gives you an idea of how she got in here unnoticed—you know, since she can apparently _fly_. Swallowing, you exhale and settle a little more into the pillows.

“We should probably talk,”

“Can we talk?”

You both speak at the same time, and it makes Kara laugh, the tears that had been building in her eyes are shaken from her lashes and roll down her cheeks. This girl—this _damned_ girl—with her laugh, and her smile. She’s right—you’d run to a warzone, because it had been the only thing that would have kept you from her—your resolve would have buckled and dissolved eventually, sooner than you wanted.

“Not now, not here,” you say, because this isn’t the time, nor the place, “When I come home—and I _am_ coming home, we can go to that Chinese place you like. You can—you can tell me all about it.”

There’s only a bit of hesitation before you continue, “Alright?”

 _Beep, beep_. You can only hear the whir of machines, before she exhales a word, “Alright.”


	7. snap shot 07. ( 6, 18, 20 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK)**. _Wendy Darling was everything the Lost Boys couldn’t remember having; someone who cared about them, would take care of them. They only knew how to survive in Neverland alone—until Peter Pan had brought Wendy into their timeless world._ // Prompt by toobookishtohandle (tumblr).

* * *

James Nidor's birthday party is coming up; he’d given out nerf darts with his address on them, and while he had handed them out to everyone else—he’d thrown yours, and it bounced off your cheek, landing in your upturned palms. This wasn’t the first birthday party you’d been invited to, but this was the first one Kara had agreed to let you go to—she’d tried to pretend she didn’t hear you, and then she’d tried to go on a delivery, but you caught her at the door. Your small back pressed against the solid wood, looking up the impossible distance between you and your cousin—she’d seemed nervous, and you didn’t know why. Like Cat was mad at her and she had to make it right.

“I wanna go,” you said.

“Clark, we’ll talk later,” she’d tried, “I have to go.”

“I wanna go,” you said again.

“Clark,” she trailed off, looking behind her like someone would try to help her, when you know your cousin can take care of herself—you’ve seen what she can do.

“There’s gonna be a pony; I’ve never seen a pony before,” you don’t like guilting your cousin, you don’t like poking at the things that you know make her eyes sad. Because that’s where she lives—in her eyes. “Everyone talks about Sarah’s birthday, and how they had fireworks, and a magic show—no one talks to me, ‘cause I wasn’t there.”

And her eyes were sad then—as she looked down at you, and chewed at her bottom lip, eyebrows pinching like something hurt, but she’s never been sick before—not that you can remember. And she’d hugged you—pulled you close, her fingers pressing into your arms, and you can always feel her hugs best—like she knows just the right amount of pressure to apply.

“Alright, bud, you can go,” she’d said quietly into your hair, “I’ll have to take off work, but—,” you had cut her off quickly, because you had another request.

“Can Cat take me?” You’d asked, “She promised to take me for ice cream Saturday anyway.” She had, and you knew your cousin wouldn’t look into it too much, wouldn’t question why you wanted to spend time with Cat, but the secret you had buried down under all that was something unforgivable—shame.

Your cousin is— _off_. She wasn’t like other parents, even the ones that weren’t a mother or a father, there was just something that didn’t fit. Like she didn’t know how to be a _person_. Your classmates had picked up on it, and had teased you relentlessly—she’d brought cupcakes in for your birthday, and when the bell had rung, she’d tripped and dropped the whole set on the ground. You hadn’t been mad—the bell is loud, and it had taken you a few days to get used to it—but Kara seemed unable to get used to _anything_. Like this world would always be too much—she’d promised to get you more cupcakes, but you’d asked her to save them for home.

You’d celebrate with her and Cat; you didn’t need to do it at school.

James had been the one who teased you the most, pretending to trip and spilling paint on your shirt, knocking things out of your hands, but he stopped the day Cat had come to pick you up—she’d walked in, sunglasses still on, a note given to the teacher, and she must have seen James knock your colored pencils to the ground, because she’d walked over—the same way she walked toward Kara when she was in trouble—and just—stood there.

“Ready to go?” She’d asked, look at James, who seemed just as nervous as Kara did whenever she was in trouble—Cat still hadn’t taken her sunglasses off, and when you picked your backpack up, she’d wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Clark, you didn’t tell me the boys in your class were so small and—oddly shaped.”

You managed not to laugh until you were out into the hall—Cat didn’t laugh until she’d buckled into the car.

Sitting on the curb to the bookstore, Kara’s across the city at the university campus—she had her black notebooks which meant she was doing research, her shirt was buttoned wrong, and she’d forgotten her glasses until you’d pulled them out of your pocket and presented them to her. She’d ruffled your hair—you’d tried to duck away—and kissed your crown, making you promise to be good for Cat. You’d offered her nothing more than a flat look, before she’d backpedaled with an _alright, alright_ and run off in the opposite direction.

Cat’s car pulls up along the curb—the nicest car you’ve ever seen—and she rolls down the window, sunglasses already tipped to the edge of her nose. “Just going to sit there, heathen?” she drawls, “I thought we had a birthday party to grace with our presence.”

You wish you hadn’t come. James’ party doesn’t have a pony, and none of the nice kids from the class showed up—it was just James and his friends. They’re fine enough while the parents are outside, but when Benjamin’s mother asks Cat about something called _Feng sui_ and they go inside, it all changes.

“Alright, loser,” James says, smiling, “We’re playing cops and robbers; we’re the cops, and you’re the robber.” He’s loading a nerf gun with darts—there’s something menacing about your classmate, something in the set of his face. You know you could do— _something_ , but Kara always looked so scared who you did anything beyond normal. It was in her eyes, even if she always kept her voice even. You don’t want to play this game, but you don’t want to wuss out, so you’re nodding and squaring your shoulders.

Like Cat does when she’s shoving her finger into someone’s chest—and they’re usually so much bigger than the small blonde.

“Go,” James says, already firing—you can’t feel the darts, but there’s a lot of them, and you’re turning away to run— _at a normal speed, at a normal speed_ you think—but there’s a box that hadn’t been there before, and you trip, falling to the ground. Covering your face from the darts, you hear James demanding things.

“Say your cousin is a freak,” he’s demanding, “say it, cry baby!”

You want to cry, because every muscle in your body is demanding that you stand up and make James back away—make him scared—but you see Kara’s eyes, and how she always stops herself, how she clenches her jaw and inhales through her nose. She never fights back, she never loses her temper—but she doesn’t have to, because Cat loses it for her.

For you too, apparently.

“Excuse you, Gap Kids,” you hear her sneer, before you can look through your fingers and spot her red four inch heels. “As lovely as it is to see your fine breeding in action, I’d suggest you knock it off, before I make a few inquiries about mommy dear’s prison issue anklet.” She’s kneeling at your side, helping you up, pushing your bangs out of your eyes, and smoothing hands down your cheeks—her face is tight in anger, but when she looks at you everything softens, and she smiles.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispers, letting you help her to her feet once you’re standing. Cat’s wrapped a slight arm around your shoulders, and you don’t feel even slightly embarrassed when you press into her side. “I promised you ice cream, right?” Smiling, she motions for her bag, which she had dropped on the ground; picking it up, you follow her out to the car, not before looking down at James’ mother’s ankle and seeing the black box strapped there, cracked open and exposed.

Nothing gets past Cat Grant.

“That’s why you didn’t want Kara to come,” she says, walking down the block to the garage when she’d parked her car, refusing to leave the expensive vehicle on the street. “They’re still picking on you.”

You shrug, still holding her purse, “Only sometimes.”

Scoffing through her nose, “ _Sometimes_ is unacceptable; we’ll talk to your teacher.”

 _We’ll_. It makes you smile, makes you hold her hand and wrap it back around your shoulders—you may have been too old to believe in the storybook reasons Kara gave you. But Cat will always be your Wendy Darling—the only girl capable of saving the lost boys. Especially Peter Pan.

You don’t know if your cousin knows how much she needs Cat; that she can’t stay in Neverland forever, no matter how she tries to keep it so. 


	8. snap shot 08. ( 14, 26, 28 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _When something is inevitable, is it better to close your eyes and pretend it is a million years away? Something so far off that when it does happen you won’t be around to feel the waves in the foundation? Or should you wait on baited breaths, counting down the minutes until everything is flipped end over end? You could never decide, and maybe that is worse—to have a clambering fear in your chest you refuse to name, refuse to stencil words and meanings to._

* * *

You haven’t been able to step away from the television all night—the same story playing over and over, the crawl at the bottom getting harder and harder to read—you thought it was because the words were getting small, were slanting and blurring, but it is the tears in your eyes. The halos of red and blue, flashes from the muted television screen—a three story building was on fire, the flames pushing out of windows, and through the roof. It was being wrangled now, easily being smothered by fire hoses and sand, unable to spread to the other houses on the block. But this isn’t what is flickering across the screen—no what has everyone’s attention is the blurry footage from an hour earlier. Nearly impossible to make out from all the smoke, from all the lights and flickers of fire.

The owner of the house had fallen asleep while smoking—surrounded by empty beer cans—and when his cigarette had rolled form his fingertips, he’d caught the alcohol soaked carpet on fire. The blaze had crawled across the carpet, had pulled itself up the curtains, and from there the whole house had gone up in flames. No one had been able to hear the man crying inside, screaming for help, no one had heard how he banged against the floor and coughed into the smoke—no human, at least. The cameras had been pointed in just the right place to see how the living room wall had been destroyed, sharp cut red light bursting through—splinters of flaming wood shooting off into the night, and the fire poured through.

Viciously at first, and when it breathed in—when it calmed just enough to see the smoke inside—a silhouette appeared. Oddly shaped, a large body tossed over the shoulder of—a boy, no older than thirteen or fourteen. His hair dark and thick, the smoke clinging to his skin, part of his shirt on fire. A wet blanket had been thrown over the man, and when the authorities had rounded the house and converged on the man—no one had been with him. But the cameras—well, the cameras saw glowing red eyes as the boy looked up and then run away. Slipping away into the night, the smoldering white of his shirt lost after a few moments.

“Who is this boy?” The reporter asks over the still frame of the boy with glowing eyes, “This hero.” Your jaw has been clenched for over an hour, pressed harshly together, you can hear the groan of your molars as you squeeze your eyes shut. “Why hasn’t he stepped forward? We’re left with more questions, than answers.” You’ve waited for Clark to come home, fear gripping your heart, digging into fears you aren’t ready to face—aren’t ready to give names. All you have is the continuous footage across the screen—meaningless words and blurry images.

But how long until someone recognizes him? How long until a classmate gets their mother or father’s attention and say, “That’s Clark, I go to school with him.” How long until black vans and SUVs are pulled along the curb, and your doorman’s politely asked to evacuate the building? How long until you have to bundle Clark away, change his name, and move to the other side of the country—how long until you had to show up to Cat’s penthouse in the middle of the night, and have to say goodbye. Because she’s human, and this is her world, and you _can’t_ drag her into this. Can’t disrupt her life any more than you already have.

The front door bangs open, and you hear jackets and bags being carelessly thrown to the ground—his booted feet thundering down the hall, checking in every room, because he doesn’t know how to sharpen his senses—he can bleed out the noise, he can dull everything, but he doesn’t know how to _listen_ yet. He doesn’t know how to push everything away, except the quick beat of a Kryptonian heart. His is thundering inside his chest, galloping as he flits through the house looking for you—trying to find you, and when he does throw the door open, you can’t turn around to look at him. You can’t see the char marks on the shirt you bought him at the beginning of the semester, or the soot on his favorite denims. You can’t see the smile on his face, because it’ll make you cry.

This boy—this beautiful boy—that you had promised to protect, is doing what you always knew he would. He is everything good about humanity, he is their golden heart, and their bravery, he is their self-sacrifice and their nobility; but he can’t see the darker edges, he can’t see the hate, and anger, and bleak sadness that lives in the world too, because you haven’t let him see it. You’ve protected him from the hardest things, beyond childhood bullies and lame Christmas gifts. He doesn’t understand how humans sneer at things they fear, how the writhe and fight.

“Did’ja see?” He asks, skipping around until he’s side by side with the television, and you can’t stop yourself from looking. Fourteen years old, and he’s taller than you already, broad across the shoulder, young in the face. His eyes a shade of blue that had never existed on Krypton—maybe the lights of Argo, maybe the glow of Pyrold’s third moon. But there’s so much blue on Earth—the sky, and the oceans—so much color, and life, so much to cherish and love. But this isn’t your home—not like it is Clark’s, not like it is Cat’s—and your love affair with Earth is a conditional one.

You hadn’t thought of the conditions until now, until Clark stands before you with a knit shirt that he thought made him look older—there was a girl in his class he wanted to ask out—and Timberland boots that made him an inch taller— _too_ tall in your opinion, he’s your _baby_ cousin—and you just want him to be that kid again. The one who nuzzled into your stomach, and demanded you read him bedtime stories, and called you _Peter Pan_ , and didn’t want to save this world of his. You love Earth, but on the condition that it doesn’t take Clark from you—doesn’t consume him and leave him sad, and weary. Doesn’t disappoint him like worlds are want to do—leave him disenchanted and just another person on a planet of billions.

“I saw.”

His grin is wide, stretched across his young face, where his youth still sits in his cheeks, in his dimpled chin, and before you can say anything else, he’s turning to the television—closing a hand into a fist and making a sound of excitement.

“Oh man,” he breaths out in excitement, and you know he’s not reading the crawl at the bottom, he doesn’t know what the muted reporter is saying, he doesn’t know the fear lingering like a haze around those who had witness his feat. “I heard him yelling—Mr. Tippard, he’s Ashley’s uncle—no one could hear him over the fire, the alarm was going off, that’s what called the fire department.” He’s almost talking too fast to follow, going through the story without really getting a full breath. He’s just watching the repeated footage—jabbing a finger toward the eighty inch screen, before turning to you.

“I saved him, Kar,” he says with glee, and you can only see the soot on his cheeks, the smell of smoke in his hair, “He was going to die, and I saved him.” _Rao_ , did your parents know what they were asking you to do when they sent you into space? Across lightyears and through constellations? Did they know you were going to have to choose one boy, over a whole planet—over dreams, and hope, and all those silly little things orphans can’t afford.

“You shouldn’t’ve.” You say, looking only at him, because you can’t look at the television—can’t look at where your phone is vibrating across the kitchen table two rooms over. You know Cat saw the news reel, you know she’s calling you from her office, waiting for you to respond—waiting for you to tell her what you’re going to do about this. What she can do.

“How do you not do this all the time, it feels _amazing_ —I couldn’t even feel the fire—…” The way his voice trails off is when you know he hears you, when he understands what you’re saying. On this planet you are not from the most noble house El, you are not the daughter of one of the greatest minds in the universe. Your family wasn’t descendants from the first pioneers to travel out into the stars. “What do you mean?” His eyes are blue—the kind of blue that didn’t exist on Krypton—like cracked ice and winter mornings; and he looks at you with the shadowed veil of humanity. Like you are somehow _other_.

“You can’t show yourself like that, Clark,” you’re imploring him, keeping your voice low, quiet and contained, because you want to pull him close and make him promise. Like he did as a child, without question, without argument, because he believed that you knew best. “You can’t just— _do_ things like this. It’s dangerous.”

 _Dangerous_ —you see the spark in his Earth blue eyes now. The fight that is all human.

“I don’t know what it’s like where _you’re_ from,” he says, voice pitched low, and it cracks, but that doesn’t stop him, “But here, in America? You help someone if you can.” _Rao_. Your heart is breaking, because where _you’re_ from is gone—it is little pieces of planet drifting harmlessly through the black of space. “You don’t just hide away ‘cause you’re scared.”

“There’s more to this than just hiding, Clark,” breath deep, breath through it, “They won’t understand what you are—and people don’t like what they don’t understand.” Fear of the unknown, it is a tale as old as time, from the first languages of the world—back in the Fertile Crescent, when the pyramids were built. When they used titans and mythical entities to explain the seasons, and the weather—to put meaning to why rivers would overflow and drown whole fields of crops. To explain away death, and disease, and famine.

“Then tell me what I am!” Boyish anger in the face of an almost-man, “Tell me what _you_ are!”

“I will, Clark, I will,” and you have to, there’s no more dancing around these truths, “But you have to promise me you won’t do this anymore—you won’t be so reckless.” You’re crying, but he isn’t deflating, if anything he gets angrier.

“And why should I listen to you?” The scent of smoke stronger as he walks past you, toward the door, and you reach out to snag his arm, to hold him in place, and you’ve never had to actually hold him like another Kryptonian, but he’s trying to remove your hand, prying at your fingers—but he can’t, because your cells are older, more mature, and you absorb the radiation of the yellow sun so much better. “You’re not my mother—you’re probably not even my cousin.”

He can’t remove you, but he’s like a molten core now, and his words make you release him, make you step back, because his eyes are glowing, and they look horrible through the veil of your tears. Settled in the center of his wobbling face. “This world, Clark,” he needs to listen, he needs to see reason, “They’re so small, but they think they’re so large—that the universe was built for them, and only them.” How could they understand a galactic empire that had imploded? A people who were stretched across planetary systems, whole quadrants of space?

“How would they react to being wrong? What would they do to someone who could do what we do?” Licking your lips, because they’re dry, even while you’re drowning in tears, your throat thick with them. “I love this place, Clark, I do—but they don’t get to have you. They don’t get to ruin all the good inside you, because they’re scared.”

You never want them to look at him in fear—never want him to worry if he’s doing the right thing—if he should do more, or less. This world will be what this world has always been—unfair, and progressive, and so close-minded—until they suddenly aren’t. Just as they got over so many fallacies of their mind, they will eventually look to the stars and wonder about what is out there—maybe they’ll be ready someday.

Today is not that day.

“You’re selfish, Kara,” he says it so firmly, his young face firm with resolve, and his Earth blue eyes betrayed, like you’d ruined something he hadn’t been ready to stop believing in—maybe it’s you. Maybe he wished he could still believe in Peter Pan, in Neverland and the lost boys. “You can save the world, but you won’t. I hope you really aren’t my cousin, because I don’t want to be related to anyone so cowardly.”

And he walks out the door.

You have no words in this language, or any other, to describe what a planet sounds like when it dies. But the closest you could probably get is heartbreak—something so without mark or definition, something that lives in the blood, and burrows into the bones. Can swallow whole selves whole and leave nothing behind—you survived the death of Krypton, you had watched through clear glass as your home chewed itself in half, the core expanding and cracking through the surface.

Krypton had died quietly—because there is no sound in space, no molecules to ripple with screams, no atoms to shiver with pain. You had sobbed, and clawed, as the stasis pulled at your senses, you’d been young and afraid, and the artificial numb that was crawling inside you didn’t belong. You had cried yourself to sleep, and however many nights later, you woke up in Earth's orbit—you’d watched a planet so much more blue than your own crest the edge of your ship. Smaller, brighter, and younger than Krypton.

You’d hated Earth—lingering up in orbit—falling in and out of the its shadow. You hated Earth because it was alive, and your home was dead.

A half hour later, when your mobile phone vibrates, you look down, hoping to see Clark’s name, but instead see Cat’s—not a call, this time—it’s a text. _“Clark’s here. He’s upset. He’s asking to stay the night._ ” There’s a question somewhere in there, even if she isn’t asking it—and whatever you feel for this little blue planet, you’re thankful for Cat. You’re thankful for all that she is and everything she will be. Looking out your window at the lights of National City, you start typing.

“ _Keep him safe?_ ” You text back, your fingers shaking, your ridiculously large apartment seems impossibly empty—and you feel impossibly alone.

Fifteen years later—you’re still just a girl locked away alone behind a pane of glass.

The response is immediate, “ _Don’t be stupid._ ”

Smiling, you let your arm fall to your side, the cheap metal warping under the pressure of your fingertips. It vibrates again; another text, “ _Will you be by tonight?_ ”

Exhaling, you type without looking down, _“Not tonight._ ”

You can imagine Clark curled against Cat’s much small body, head on her shoulder, pretending he doesn’t notice that she’s texting you—his not-cousin—and you’re so happy he has her. Has a human so precious to him that he doesn’t have to trust the world, not yet. You can be _other_ , you can be the _strangeness_ in the dark, as long as he has Cat.

Another text. “ _Want me to come over after he’s asleep?_ ”

National City’s so beautiful at night—windows bright with families having dinner, store fronts illuminated with the dreams that had made them, tower tops pulsing like beacons in the dark. So much life, so much activity, and none of them know what a gift they have. To live on this planet of theirs. You respond, “ _Not tonight._ ”

Walking out the door, letting it shut quietly behind you, all the lights out—no one home—you walk down the twenty nine flights of stairs and out onto the street, away from Lord Technologies, away from CatCo—you walk to the darker part of town, where the metal is older, and the lights are more neon, and less LED. The Bruised Apple had closed an hour earlier, but you find the key on your ring that opens the front door, punch in the code to the security system.

The room in the basement hasn’t changed much from when you’d been young—when you’d had a toddler pressed against your chest—when you’d read him stories of impossible islands and eternal boys who never grew up.

Lowering yourself into the pile of blankets, you only have to search for a moment before you find the book tucked into the old knapsack. You can feel the little rips in the cover, the wrinkles in the pages—the page in the back that had come out completely, and you’d taped it back in. You felt more at home in this dark basement, than you ever had in your glass and chrome apartment in the sky.

You start reading.

“All children, except one, grow up.” Your voice echoes in the dark, and you can remember how wide Clark had always smiled when you got to start at the beginning, “They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this forever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.”

Clark was never your lost boy, and you were never his Peter Pan.


	9. snap shot 09. ( 6, 18, 20 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _It was supposed to be a quick weekend trip to the theme park, two hours in the car, but when the exit comes and goes, and Kara starts asking you where you’re taking them, you only smile. “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.” Something about the way her face relaxes, the way she leans low into the passenger seat lets you know you’ve done something right—whatever it is. //_ Prompt from anonymous.

* * *

“Do you know how this was made?” You’re leaning over the iron red gating, the metal scalding under your fingertips but you refuse to let go. Clark is pressed against your leg, having latched onto you when Kara deemed it necessary to find some kind of vendor who sold water—having forgotten to pack any when gathering the hotel room this morning. The ridges and canyons stretch for miles, beyond where you can see, and it is impossible not to feel small. To realize you are only a speck of person on this large rotating globe of life; just one person in a race of billions.

You almost give up on an answer, ready to loop around back toward the information plaque so you could read some important man’s interpretation of what was before you. But Clark _does_ answer, “Aliens.”

Squinting against the sun, you look down at the boy shadowed by his ridiculously floppy hat, only the longest strands of his dark hair visible. “Aliens?” You inquire, tapping the top of his head, and when he looks up—blue eyes nearly squinted shut—he nods.

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Chris.”

“Who’s Chris?”

“My friend.”

“Your friend? Is he an alien?”

And Clark looks _alarmed_ , like this thought had never occurred to him, and you feel bad for all of five seconds before Kara is spilling through the human traffic around you, wearing a _ugly_ mustard yellow shirt that is two sizes too big, with what appeared to be a stenciled outline of the state, filled with campy tourist photos. _Grand Canyon_ written above, and _Arizona_ written below the horrible little picture. But she’s smiling widely, equally ugly yellow shirts in her right hand, a soft top cooler with the tag still on in her left.

“I got the last three of these.” She’s grinning, and you’re just about to tell her there’s _no way_ you are going to be caught dead in that cotton blend monstrosity, when her eyes do that thing they do—get all soft and sentimental, and you know you’re _fucked_. “I thought we could match and, like, take pictures.”

Yeah, _fucked_.

“Gim’me!” Clark’s already disengaging, little hands grappling for the shirt that is appropriately sized for him—kind of. It is a little large, but he doesn’t seem to care, because it allows him to yank it on with his hat still in place. You try to be a little more delicate, but the material is cheap, and stiff, and when you do have it on, it sits awkwardly.

But Clark’s laughing, pressing the bottle of water Kara gives him against his cheek, and then tucking it under his hat to sit comically underneath it. And Kara’s eyes are like crystals in the sunlight, and your heart thumps, and your mouth is dry in ways water won’t help, and there’s a cloistering feeling of _something_ that you won’t be putting any kind of name to.

But it starts with _L_ , and ends in a whole lot of something.

“Here,” she offers a bottle that’s already been cracked open, a gulp of water removed, and her bottom lip glistens with your stolen liquid. A _cquisition_ , you think, remembering the term from your business class, and that water she so rudely drank was _yours_ —that might be what you were thinking, you aren’t positive, not once you’ve wrapped fingers in her ugly yellow shirt and pulled her into a kiss. Stealing her gasp like a thief, she melts into you and your back presses against the rust red fence.

“It’s rude to drink someone’s water,” you murmur against her lips, looking at her—having never closed your eyes—because you love how Kara looks when she’s being kissed. Like it invigorates her, somehow sustains her; sucking her lower lip into her mouth, you’re tempted to coax it free again, but she’s shaking herself in place, opening sparkling eyes to watch you.

Skylines and constellations.

“Who says it’s your water?” She extends the bottle away, like the slight distance somehow made it any less _yours_.

“I said I was thirsty, and you got water,”

She hums under her breath, you feel it along the bird’s wings of her collarbones, “Just sounds like I’m a nice person.” Sighing the words while looking at the boy currently toying around with a much too expensive camera, “Right, bud?”

“So nice,” he agrees, before jumping slightly too close and almost knocking the water from Kara’s hand, and when she pulls it close, water splashes up onto her face. You can’t help laughing, pressing your forehead against her shoulder while you shake. “Kar, Kar,” he’s jostling against your side, “Did you know aliens made the Great Canyon?”

Kara tenses—not the slight flinch she does from loud noises or bright lights, but this one is body wide, starting at her fingertips and crawling up her spine. Rubbing small circles on her back, underneath the ugly shirt, her smooth skin tense, hard, and all her muscles clenched.

“Grand Canyon,” you correct gently, not adding anything else until you know why she’s so worried; why water is spilling out of the bottle in her hand, the plastic crinkling and bending within her grip.

“ _Grand_ Canyon,” he drawls with emphasis, “Chris told me aliens fired laser beams from their _eyes_ and if you looked at it from space it’d look like a big _butt_.”

O—kay.

Like a balloon with a pin prick in it, Kara begins to deflate, laughing as he continues on, and her hand stops crushing the poor bottle. She’s soft again, your fingers can press into her skin, and she curves around you until your back is to her chest, and you’re both facing Clark.

“A butt?” She asks, her voice light and brushing against the shell of your ear.

“A _big_ butt.” He reiterates, like she’s forgotten the most important part. And she’s laughing again, her arms pulling you close, until you can feel the stuttering leveling of her breaths, the way she laughs through her nose because she’s closed her mouth.

“That’s silly, Clark.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but you lace your fingers through her, whispering, “What, supergirl, don’t believe in aliens?” She bristles at the nickname—the same thing you’ve been calling her since she bravely stood between you and Jack Ellis that first time—but she exhales, and nuzzles back behind your ear. You decide you like her here—halfway across the country from National City—where she doesn’t retract like someone of import with catch her touching you.

“Of course I believe in aliens,” she sounds cowed, and presses an open mouth kiss along your jaw, you tilt to give her more room, watching as Clark takes poorly angled photographs of the rock in the center of the lookout, back facing you, and the entirety of the Grand Canyon. Nope, has to have enough pictures of that slightly larger than average rock. “It’d be arrogant to assume humanity is the only life in the universe, wouldn’t you think?”

God, she _must_ know what her voice does to you when it hums along your jaw like that, lower, rougher than her usual sunny disposition. Luckily, everyone else seems to be equally as disinterested in you as Clark is—because there is no grand outcry of PDA, no scandalized children having their eyes covered.

It’s—nice.

Kara’s manually pivoting you, and you smile at the dramatic huffing she does—she’s lifted you before, and you’d been properly impressed—and after a moment your hips are pressing against the railing, and you can feel Kara’s smile against your shoulder.

It’s—perfect.

“It doesn’t look like a butt,” Clark pipes up, camera lifted, looking through the view finder, even if the digital screen shows what he’s taking a picture of.

“Well,” Kara drawls, breath cooling against the moist skin of your shoulder where her mouth had just been, “That’s ‘cause you’re not in space.” She supplies, and Clark nods vigorously—like this is obviously legitimate reasoning. That feeling is building in your chest again, that ridiculous warmth that crawls through you and lives in every one of your cells. The silly mechanical click of Clark hitting the button over and over, the slow rise and fall of Kara’s chest against your back, the scalding heat of the sun hitting the top of your head.

This could be your forever, and you don’t think you could ask for more.

Twenty minutes later, when Kara snags a passing couple, and asks them to take a picture or two, you act begrudging—like you’re doing this just for her—but you’ve already picked out a frame in your mind. The copper one that your grandmother had given your father, the one that you’d had his picture in until your mother had gone through the whole house and put his pictures in storage. Something—someone—you love goes in that frame.

Kara slings Clark up onto her shoulders, wobbling to keep her balance, and the boy doesn’t help by grabbing at her head and covering her eyes. You wonder if you’re going to have to step in, but she keeps them balanced and carefully steps over toward you. Wrapping an arm around her waist, you don’t move when she presses her cheek against yours and smiles—you know you’re smiling like a fool, that this photograph can only live in the privacy of your apartment—but you can’t stop yourself.

“Everyone say cheese,” the young woman holding your camera is smiling.

Maybe you’re just as bad as them, maybe it was somehow meant to be, because without thinking, without conferring—your little family of three says, while producing equally ridiculous grins, “Aliens!”


	10. snap shot 10. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _There’s a million and one reasons why people keep things to themselves—you try on each justification whenever you swallow the truth. It’s best for them. It’s to keep them safe. It isn’t worth mentioning. But the truth is, you’re just selfish. You don’t want them to see this side of you. The side that lingers below your skin—built on anger, and justice, and something even you can’t define._

* * *

The first time it happens, you’re thirteen. Walking home from the market eight blocks over, because the one on the corner was closed after burning to the ground. Apparently no one enforced fire codes on this side of town. You’d gotten paid the day before, Mr. Callaghan said it was a bonus for working the weekend—you’d tried to give it back, but he was old, and insistent. Clark had eaten the last of the cereal this morning, so you had to go buy more—along with a gallon of milk, and juice boxes. The man at the market had watched you warily, but you hadn’t taken offense—no one in this neighborhood seemed particularly forth coming.

Walking down the street, it is impossible to bleed out all the noise—they slip through carelessly, wiggling into your ears until you can hardly separate them from one another. _Charles, you know you can’t do—tonight at eleven, National City police found a dead—Timmy, it’s too late, you should be in bed—Lucy, you got some ‘splainin’ to do_. Televisions, and conversations slicing together, you can’t tell where one ends, and the other starts—but one feels closer, like it’s breathing down your neck, digging into the shell of your ear. _Don’t make this hard, kid; don’t feel much like killing someone today_.

You stop.

You can’t feel the weight of the milk in the bag, you can’t feel the cool autumn wind against your cheeks, you can only hear how the faceless voice whimpers in the night—how fabric scratches against brick, and a weight dropped to the ground, papers and something hard with glass. You hear two heartbeats, and they thunder inside your skull, pushing out all the voices, the whole city, you focus on them, threading through the beats until you can make out their individual pattern. One is calm, steady—the other frantic and frightened.

Stepping into the dark of the alley, you have no trouble spotting the man towering over the boy—how his shoulders hunch and his fingers curl menacingly. Placing your groceries on the ground, you don’t need to look at him to hear how gravel pivots under his boot as he turns toward you.

“Get out of here, kid,” he growls, “this ain’t got nothing to do with you.” But it does, and you don’t know why—something inside you is writhing, and demanding, and you’re walking forward, still not looking up. How many boys had died on Krypton? How many? You can’t count that high, you can’t remember the great houses as easily as you once did—they’re abstract, and _other_ , and there’s no one to remind you, because you’re the _last_ daughter of Krypton. You are their legacy. You have a boy at home with martian blood, and a human heart, and you can’t be that, can’t be _both_ —not like him.

So you’ll be this.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, looking up into this man’s bloodshot brown eyes, the way the vein bulges in his neck, the way his face scrunches in something close to pain. Pupils blown wide, his hands shaking. “Just let him go.”

He doesn’t—why doesn’t he?

You don’t know how to throw a punch, not really, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because when he turns towards you, when he throws a punch, his body leaning into the swing—he breaks his hand against your shoulder. The bones crack like twigs, brittle little things only held inside by the give of muscle and skin. He screams, his body sharpening at the edges, jolting away as his hand is curled against his chest—he’s cursing in two languages, and you hardly know English, and the other sounds too foreign, and you’re scared—confused—but the boy is whimpering, and you don’t know if he’s scared of you, or this man.

“You _bitch_ ,” he seethes, his ruined hand held up between you like a warning, and when he steps forward, it is like an earthquake, you feel the vibration up his leg—into the muscles tense with anger, into the density of his bones, and the torque of his muscle. You feel it all, you see it all—and when he throws his whole hand forward, you catch it—your much smaller fingers wrapping around the curve of his fist, and you feel how he pushes forward, but you can barely feel him, barely notice the pressure.

He’s groaning, and you don’t realize your fingers are pressing inward until his bones chirp and crack, his joints pop and tear—you try to make heads or tails of the sounds, but none of them connect to anything you know. It isn’t until blood weeps through a split in his skin, the white of his bone noticeable, that you gasp and back away. The sharp metallic tang of copper in the air, staining your fingers, thick in your nostrils, and you feel like you’re going to be sick—because all you can hear it the wet _pop_ of his joint rupturing. The man doesn’t react, because he’s passed out from the pain, he’s crumped to his side, ruined paws pulled against his chest. You’re left with the scared boy, older than you by a few years, his hair dark and his glasses missing a lens. He’s blinking at you like he can’t really see you; you see the faded bruise on his cheek, and the nervous tap of his fingers.

“You’re safe,” you say, but your voice is wavering, your fists are clenched, and you don’t think this world feels particularly safe—not if boys like this couldn’t walk home in the night, not if men like this lurk in the shadows. What kind of place is Earth if this was— _common_.

“Who are you?” The boy asks, scrambling to his feet, tossing his bag over his shoulder, pushing his half-ruined glasses further up his nose.

Who are you? That’s a good question—you’re Kara Zor-El, of the house El, but that means nothing on Earth, you’re not that person. Not anymore. “No one,” you settle on, shoulders sagging, “I’m no one.”

The boy smiles, like he knows exactly what you’re feeling; it isn’t a _happy_ smile, but it is understanding, “Thanks, No One.” He walks past you, stepping over the limp man on the ground, and just before he steps into the hazy dark of the city, you find yourself speaking up.

“I’ll walk you home.”

You skip two or three steps until you’re shoulder to shoulder with him—grabbing your bag on the way. You don’t plan on talking—you have nothing to say—so he starts talking instead; you just listen.

* * *

You manage not to do it for a few weeks—you filter out the garbage—everything too far away, everything that has nothing to do with you, but you can’t remove everything. Not without turning it all off, so you try to stop the voices—you tuck them into the drone of the television, into the news blasting from the center of the city, into car radios and commercial breaks—you hide the words into the silence of a documentary and you try not to pick it apart. You pretend it is all some illusion, that the words belong to sit-coms and dramas.

But you can’t do that forever, you can’t ignore the pleas—it is a Sunday afternoon, you’re walking home through the dark at the south end of National City. The trees thick, and the paths well hidden—it isn’t nice like the ones on the north end, but it’s decent enough. Tucking your hands into the pockets of your cream colored jumper, you shrug your shoulders until the scratchy fabric is bunched around your neck—it is winter, and the air hold the promise of the first snow.

 _Please, stop_ —a woman’s voice, cracking in the middle, and you stop. Looking through the green, it takes no effort to release the strain you always keep—that stops you from looking through walls and trees and whole sections of city. A woman in jogging gear, one shoe thrown away, forgotten near the base of a tree trunk, and a man wearing too many layers to be comfortable—he has fingers wrapped into her hair, her body bowing away from him, even if you can see how her scalp pulls.

You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, even as you’re already pushing through branches, even as you’re pulling your sweater’s hood over your head. It covers your eyes, hanging to the center of your nose, but you’re already looking through it, the fabric barrier means nothing to you—when you step into the clearing, you make no noise. You want to walk away, want to dissolve into the afternoon oblivion like everyone else in the city, but you can’t ignore this—you can’t ignore how the woman’s breathing hiccups inside her lungs, how her heart thunders, how the hairs on the back of her arms raise and her skin pebbles.

You have too many ghosts inside of you from a dead planet, you have no space for humanity, no empty places in your heart for their dead. Even with your superior senses, and your x-ray vision, you can’t see the arbitrary line drawn in the sand—the distance between good and evil, between right and wrong. How are you supposed to understand anything if no one can explain it? If no one can definitively say what is, and isn’t, alright.

But what’s happening in front of you now—this is wrong. Whatever side of the line it is on, you don’t abide by it.

Kicking forward, you hit his shin, hard enough that he releases his hold on the woman’s hair, arms pin wheeling for balance as he clambers to the side. A flailing fist hits your shoulder, and you step backward, watching as he hits the ground and rolls back up onto his feet—at night, you curl your fingers inward, tucking all four under your thumb, feeling the pressure of making a fist. It feels good, like you’re given some kind of control that you hadn’t had since you’d been shot from Krypton; since you’d watched it implode.

You hear the _schik_ of a knife, and the weight of steps before he’s on you—his weight hits the ground oddly, his left ankle wobbles, his shin buckles—it hurts him. You can hear the rattle in his bone. Ducking below his swing, how his hand chewed through the air, how his shoulder groaned—stepping back, he follows. Swallowing whatever distance you try to allow, whatever breathing room you create—your hands are clenched into fists, your wrists hurt—no, they don’t hurt, they _ache_ , and you don’t know how to make it _stop_.

He swings again, and you step back once more, the grass incline goes downward and you almost trip, but when he lunges again, you press gently on the inside of his wrist and he stumbles. Hips over shoulders, his knife falling into the grass, his body rolling down the hill; his momentum slowing when the ground begins to get marshy at the pond’s edge. He’s thrashing at the ground, ripping through the longer grass, the reeds, and you’re walking down the hill—it’s easy to keep your balance, you don’t even have to think about it.

He’s cursing, and just as he’s beginning to stand up, you snap a foot forward—toes pointed, not how you’re supposed to kick, but then again, you don’t have to worry about breaking your toes, do you? You catch him just under the chin, and his teeth clack together and he falls backwards into the pond—the air in his thick coat bubbling free, the fabric getting heavy, dragging him below the water—you hear how his heels drag as he’s pulled down. How his air escapes in bubbles from below—the water sloshes over his ankles, sinking into his boots, and you wait.

He’s going to drown—and you can hear how his heart thunders, how his lungs are just about to inflate—the creak in his ribs as his diaphragm is about to inflate.

You realize you’ve had your eyes closed this whole time—that you had retreated into the darkness, and when you do crack your lids. You see a man under two feet of water, blood filtering from his mouth, clouding the water—and you’re horrified. You can _see_ him now, actually see him as he’s about to drown. Grabbing his ankle before he has a chance to slip further into the water, you pull him onto the mossy grass, you leave him there as his lungs fill with air, as his chest lifts and falls.

He’s alive—but he almost wasn’t.

It is a strange realization to make—you had almost killed this man, had almost let him die, and it feels—horrible. But you’d watched million die when Krypton exploded—you’d watched a whole _planet_ die. And this feels—different. You thought it’d feel the same, somehow it would linger in your blood the same way, at home and permanent, but this is poisonous. A toxic taste to the edge of your tongue that feels like razorblades; feels wrong.

“Call an ambulance,” you say to the girl at the top of the grassy knoll, the jogger with one shoe—you don’t look at her, keep your chin down and against your chest. You can hear how her toes dig into the dirt, how her mobile phone creaks in her fist. Turning on your heel, you walk away, ignoring how she chases three steps, how she calls for you to wait—you can’t, you don’t know why, but you can’t.

* * *

You don’t fight it anymore. You don’t tell yourself you won’t do it, or that you shouldn’t—when you hear someone in distress, you just— _go_. Pull your hood low, and tuck your chin. You don’t know how to throw a proper punch, not the first few times—but you can’t break your thumb, so you don’t worry. You pick it up as you go, you watch them as much as they seem to watch you—how their weight shifts, how their bodies lower. Its absurd how easy it is after a while; how natural the movements become.

You always thought you’d become a scientist—like your father, or uncle—or maybe you’d go into politics like you mother. It had seemed easy enough to follow the trajectory—but maybe you’re more like your aunt. A soldier. Someone who protects, someone who serves. Maybe that is what lives in your martian blood now—maybe that is what you have to aspire you. Your mother did tell you to protect your cousin—to keep him safe in the golden light of this much younger sun. On this little blue planet thousands of lightyears from home.

When you go for a walk at night, you always wear something with a hood, a flimsy infinity scarf around your neck. You tell yourself you’ll stop when you can go for a walk without hearing trouble—without hearing someone cry out for help—you say you’ll stop when National City is safe. But _safe_ is such an abstract concept, you don’t think you’ll be able to notice it when you do see it.

But that day never comes, because someone always needs help. You must remind yourself to ease up, to hold back, to keep your fists outside their bodies, and with time, you get better. More fluid. They are able to hit you less; you know the only reason you’ve managed for so long is because their feeble human fists have nothing on your solid Kryptonian body. They break bones on you when they are able to hit you—their knuckles pop and their flanges crumble.

It helps you concentrate, helps you calm the hard beat of your heart—that subtle boiling just below your skin you can almost pretend isn’t there. That simmering _something_ that lives only inside you. Clark doesn’t know it exists, and Cat can’t know—it’s an anger you never want to name, because that will give it a power over you. A power that you simply can’t let it have. Because you’re trying to be a good person, and there is nothing _good_ about that anger. Nothing _good_ in what it’s capable of.

* * *

You’re eighteen the first time a reporter catches you—he’s older, graying at the temples, and you’d just stopped one of the local gangs from dashing his skull against the wall. They’re unconscious, the black fabric of your gloves wet with their blood, but you reassure yourself that all their hearts are beating. Their lungs fill with air. Your hood is pulled low, covering the top half of your face, your x-ray vision allowing you to peer through the thick fabric—your scarf is pulled up over your nose, and you’re looking as the man rights himself. Checking the camera around his neck for damage—the lens is cracked, and the flash dangles by two wires.

“Word was National City had itself their own Batman,” he says, looking at you with bright eyes, he’s let the camera drop against his chest, taking a step toward you—and you take a step back. “You’re kind of small; thought you’d be bigger.” He takes another step forward—and you take another step back.

You don’t say anything, you weren’t prepared for this, you hadn’t even thought of the day someone with clout would catch onto what you’re doing. Your hands begin to curl into fists, but this isn’t a situation you can fight your way out of.

“Nothing to say? You’d think I’d realize you lot tend to be the strong silent types.” He’s smiling, wide and charming, and you feel something in your shoulders loosen, but you know you should be weary. “Name’s Perry White; I’m from Metropolis. A few of my colleagues have gotten some interesting stories about a pint-sized crime fighter making some headway in National City, so I thought I’d swing by to see for myself.” He’s in his thirties, his clothes looked rumpled from a day at the office, and you see a pencil stuck behind his ear. How is hasn’t fallen out, you’ll never know.

“I’ve had to get myself out of a few tight spots trying to find you; my plan was thought out up until the general gang violence, but not what to do if you didn’t show.” He’s stopped walking toward you, so you stop backing up—one of the bodies on the ground groans and starts moving, you hit him once in the stomach, and he goes still again. Alive, but unconscious.

“Go back to Metropolis, Mr. White.” Your voice is hoarse, cracking, but not nearly as low as you want to make it, but enough that you can’t readily pin it down as your own. His eyebrows perk up, and his smile grows.

“Thanks, but no thanks. Think I’m going to be spending a little more time in National City, just something about the people is inviting.” He’s shrugging his bag onto his shoulder, a small notebook already in hand, writing—whatever it is he’s writing. “You have a name? Articles get pretty hairy if no proper-nouns are involved.”

“Everyone has a name, Mr. White.”

He smiles wider, “Witty, I like it.” Tucking the pencil back behind his ear, he watches you walk toward the furthest end of the alley. Hands tucked into the pockets of your sweatshirt. “How about the Spectre?”

“For what?”

“Your name, of course. Unless you already have one picked out—I always figured you vigilante types spend a while on the name.” You’ve never seen someone so _blasé_ about being surrounded by unconscious bodies—but you figure you shouldn’t be surprised. Cat Grant wants to be a journalist; there has to be some kind of personality type enthralled by the idea of digging for the truth.

“Can’t say I’ve thought too much about it,” you admit.

“Excellent,” he grins, “Have a good night, Spectre.”

You kick the metal lead for the fire escape, and the ladder falls, you could just fly away—or blink out of his sight, but you’ve done your best to keep your abilities hidden. To be as human as possible—outside of the impenetrable skin, and how men tend to break their fists on your skull. “That sounds ridiculous.”

“Give me your real name, and I’ll print that instead.”

Shaking your head, you press your feet on the rail and jump to the next landing—and then the next—and next, until you’re on the edge of the roof. _Spectre_ ; it does have a ring to it. A ridiculous ring, but nonetheless.

* * *

Apparently Perry White was able to take a single photograph—poor lighting, and it’s from the back. The moon washing out half the image, but your silhouette is framed against the moon. It’s properly dynamic, even if it’s impossible to see anything concrete. The Daily Planet runs the article two nights past, the headline _National City’s own hero_ is above the picture, and the center fold is beautifully written, but lacking anything of substance.

_The Spectre doesn’t ask for gratitude, but this reporter finds themselves thankful nonetheless—it was no easy feat, confronting six hardened criminals from the darkest part of National City, but the Spectre didn’t back down. They dealt with them swiftly, with skill and care, and only asked for the authorities to be called…_

Clark reads the article twice, spilling milk on the front page as he’s eating breakfast. You try to tell him that being a vigilante isn’t something he should be striving toward—the authorities are there for a reason. He nods, but when you see the front page pinned to his wall later that night, after he’s gone to sleep, you can’t help but feel some kind of pride.

After that first article, Perry White never writes another.

You’ve gotten better at avoiding reporters.

Well, all of them except one.

* * *

You’re twenty five when Cat grant figures you out.

She’s none too pleased with you, and when she shoves her hands against your shoulders, you comply and take a step backwards, because it doesn’t matter that she couldn’t physically move you if you didn’t wish to be—she’s Cat, and you’ll always be pliant to her. She shoves you again, and you’re worried that she hasn’t said anything yet, hasn’t demanded explanations—because you’d given her enough answers to satisfy after she’d come home from Iraq. You’d been amiable with distance, and you’d allowed her the time she needed—and when she did show up, it was with a list of questions, and no patience for lies.

So you’d answered them.

Somehow it had never come up, because she was looking for extraordinary things—you’d showed her more than Perry White had seen that night. She fingered the hole in your sweatshirt where bullets had burrowed through—she’d felt your stomach where the knife should have killed you. She asked about genetics, and abilities, and _what_ you are—and you’d told her the truth. Most of it. Enough of it.

But she’s here now, and she’s pressed against you, and her face is flushed, starting at her neck, and her fingers have curled into the dark fabric of your sweatshirt. She’s beautiful when she’s mad—and you realize that probably is no help, because nothing good ever comes from Cat Grant being mad at you. The last time it happened, she’d gone half-way across the world, and had hid herself in a war zone.

“ _You’re_ the Spectre?” She’s incredulous, and her grip tightens, knuckles going white with how firmly she’s keeping you in place. You place your hands over her clenching fingers, her hands cool against your martian hot palms.

“I am.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?” She demands, and you would shrug is she didn’t have such a _grip_ on you. Her eyes are bright, alight with anger, and sparkling with something you know too well—worry—because Cat Grant is at her angriest when you make her worry about you. She gets snappy, and hot under the collar, and her lip curls in a sneer—this anger burns hot, and you prefer it to her more common form of fury. A cold calculating thing that has more in common with frost bite and winter than anything hot.

“You didn’t ask,” not specifically, but the justification seems weak now, as she bears down on you. Shorter, and more slight, but that’s never stopped her before.

“Don’t start arguing semantics with me, Kara,” she warns, eyebrows perking, “You won’t like the outcome.”

So you loosen, wilting at your edges, because you just want to go back to before she knew any of this—before that night with the knife, before your intervention in Iraq—before there was a lurking _doubt_ in her green eyes. When she didn’t know about this worst version of you—the kind that thrills at the violence, that needs the adrenaline to stay sane, because you’re restless any other way. Work keeps your mind satisfied, it lets you tuck into intellectual problems and solve them—but you are a physical being as much as you are an intellectual one.

“So much had changed already—I wasn’t… _ready_ for this to change too. For you to see this side of me.” The side with blood soaked into the sleeves of your sweatshirt, where your fists clench and your spine hardens. She goes soft at the eyes, but her grip doesn’t loosen—her stance doesn’t change.

“So you lied,”

“I omitted the truth,” you try, but the glint in her gaze makes you recant, “I lied.”

She steps back, looking at you, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, an ink stain on her jaw where she’d probably itched her cheek while holding a pen. Her bag is forgotten by the door, the key you’d given her left on the table beside it. You wonder when she’s going to leave for good—if she’d planned to do that before you’d intervened, if last time was supposed to be… _the last time_. It is a fear that lingers in your chest, it hurts in ways that knives and bullets couldn’t hope to manage.

“When you want to tell me the truth,” cool, inward, she’s walking toward the door, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “You know where to find me.” The doorknob turns, the hinges creaking as she opens the door, and you can’t stop yourself; whatever hope you’ve had of keeping these two entities separate, you’ve given up on, because they’ve already crashed together. At least Clark didn’t know.

“Cat,” you call, “Wait.”

* * *

You’re thirty one when Cat Grant writes her first article in three years.

_Spectre—dead._


	11. snap shot 11. ( 2, 18, 29, 32 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK).** _What happens when a lost boy grows up? Stepping out of Neverland for the first time, no pixie dust in his pocket; oh, Peter and Wendy will visit. But this world isn’t for them. It’s for lost boys who want to find their own way, make their own compass and define their own true north. Neverland will always be—will always be waiting to welcome the lost boy back, but for now. For now—reality awaits._

* * *

“Bro, you won’t believe what’s up over at Garland hall,” your roommate has constructed a tower of boxes that may, or may not, tumble without provocation. You don’t know how it is even maintaining any sense of structural soundness. Luck, probably. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself now that you’re actually here—you’d spent the whole summer doing research on what freshman should do before moving into their dorm, but what you’re feeling right now wasn’t on any of the check lists you’d compiled. It wasn’t in the orientation guide, or the campus tour. This _lingering_ in your bones hadn’t showed up until your last box was placed; until you had nothing more to get from the car, no more odds and ends.

You were officially moved in.

“What’s up, Trev?” You flop onto your bed, picking up the camera Cat had gotten you for your eighteenth birthday—you hadn’t mentioned it, but nothing gets past Cat Grant. Kara is convinced she hires private investigators to figure out what to buy people for their birthday—you don’t have the heart to tell your cousin that she’s pretty easy to shop for. The media mogul had probably seen you looking at its specs when you were in Best Buy over last summer; you’d planned to save up money to buy it before college, but it’d been waiting for you in February for your birthday. No card, and wrapped poorly—and that was how you knew Cat had wrapped it herself, that she hadn’t hired a professional to do it.

“Free concert, little _screamo_ for my taste, man, but word is there’s a keg.” Trevor is grinning from ear to ear, his dark eyes bright and his purposefully slouched posture endearing—you’d met him a few times before the semester started, once you’d gotten your room assignment. He was an absolute _bro_ —in his own words—from Smallville, Kansas; some mile by mile town where there was more farm animals than people. Word was they’d gotten some notoriety almost two decades ago when some meteors crashed in their corn fields, and when the authorities rolled out to investigate, there was nothing to recover. But strange marks that looked like something had been dragged clear of the site.

You knew nothing about that; wink.

“We’re only eighteen,” eyebrow raised, Trevor has the shine to grin wider—if possible.

“Come on, man; we’re college bound now, it’d be a crime _not_ to drink free beer,” you’ve never met someone so amiable with casual rule breaking. He’s disarmingly charming, and you understand why he’s going into journalism—you know the kind of person it takes to get information out of people who may not want to share it.

“An absolute travesty,” you drawl, smiling nonetheless.

Still fiddling with the camera, turning the focus this way and that, you glance at the inside of your wrist to see what time it was—Kara said she’d be here by five, but when you turn your mobile on, there’s no missed calls or messages. Any number of things could have come up, and you understand—you _do_ —but that _lingering_ in your bones feels heavier, and the tethers keeping you to the ground feel weak and absent. You feel alone for the first time—in your whole life, like maybe this is what life really is. Standing under only your own weight, with nothing promising solid ground.

“Let’s go,” you decide, tucking your camera up onto the shelf above your bed, “don’t want to miss the free beer.” Trevor practically clicks his heels as you slip your feet into your shoes, and tug a _University of Metropolis_ sweatshirt over your head. Cat’d tried to get you to get a haircut before you left, but you’d maintained that shaggy was in—you didn’t care what her fashion section had to say about it. She’d only made _five_ comments afterward, and you were proud of her restraint—you’d said as much when kissing her cheek when you’d hugged her goodbye.

Hands shoved in your pockets, you smile and greet everyone you pass—the wing in primarily students going into communications—radio, journalism, television—and you’d yet to iron out exactly what you wanted to take. You were leaning toward photo journalism, but knew you’d never hear the end of it if your writing lagged—a double major? It was just another thing you had to figure out, and you had no idea how to. How people made these choices about life when they were only eighteen—you can’t imagine the next five months, let alone five years.

“Oh yeah,” your friend cheers, slicking back his hair—which is completely irrelevant, because he tugs his snap-back over his hair—and smooths out his eyebrows. “Hotties at six o’clock.” Rolling your eyes, you look behind you, and try to find aforementioned hotties—but there’s only a forty year old maintenance man, and a statue.

“Trev, while I’m not one to cast judgement on other’s proclivities,” you start, “I honestly didn’t know this about you, man.”

Trevor looks where you are still staring and gags, curling fingers around your shoulder and pointing you to face the _opposite_ direction--he must not understand the spotting method. You search for a moment—small Hispanic man, elderly woman, child, and— _oh_. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder, just under the shade of the large tree in front of the building. A campus map is forgotten in one hand, crumpled like they’d given up on using it—the shorter of the two dressed like she didn’t realize it was still ninety something degrees. Smooth black silk, with white piping at the collars, heels that were ridiculous, and still didn’t allow her to be equal in height to her companion. She’s making a gesture with one hand, and you can’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses—but her companion doesn’t seem to need eye contact to know.

Your cousin has both hands shoved in her pockets, hair tucked back behind her ear, while lifting her shoulders in a graceless shrug you know she’s being yelled at for—another lecture about posture that you can almost hear before it’s said. It had your own spine straightening, and hands removed from pockets. Neither one of them see you; Kara must not be paying attention—but that isn’t surprising. For as long as you can remember, she’s only ever had eyes for Cat—baleful, pitiful eyes, at times—but it was like the world slipped away for a little while and she wasn’t a woman with a dead planet on her shoulders. She was just another hapless fool in love.

You’ve never seen two people orbit each other like them—always passing by, like gravity simply wouldn’t let them slip away. Just maintain parallel paths until the end of days. You didn’t know the whole story, you didn’t even know most of it—if you’re being honest—but there’d never been a question in your mind who they belonged with.

Not that they ever asked you.

“Knock it off, man,” you elbow him, a little harder than you probably should have but— _seriously_ , boundaries, “Those’re my parents.”

Blue eyes have found you from across the lawn, sunglasses perched on the top of her head, making sure her blonde hair stays out of her eyes. Seeing Kara here, it is impossible not to notice how young she is; slouching in a CatCo tank top, a familiar knapsack over one shoulder—she looks like any other college student, fresh faced and clambering for the day. She’s smiling softly at you, lifting a hand to curl around Cat’s shoulder so that she’s facing your direction. _Parents_. It is a term a lot of your classmates takes for granted—to them, it usually means mother and father, or hey, even mother and mother. But it is something—intangible to you.

Its two children themselves, who raised you the best way they knew how—with fairy tales and juice boxes, carnivals in the summer and Christmas lights in the winter. You’d tried calling Kara _mom_ a few times, but it had never stuck—she’d shake her head gently, and comb her fingers through your hair. When you were older, you found out it was because you had a mother—who had loved you dearly, who had sent you away to save you—and Kara hadn’t wanted to take that, hadn’t felt comfortable stepping into those shoes. _Cousin_ doesn’t mean too many what it does to you—to many, it isn’t synonymous with _your whole world_.

And Cat—no one could understand how fondly a woman could say _my heathen_ , and how it lived so intimately in your heart. She’d made no promise to parents and a dead race, she hadn’t travelled thousands of lightyears. But she’d pulled you out of the road by your hand, and never let go. She was the humanity between the three of you—she gave you _the talk_ when you were thirteen, and had made it so that Kara wouldn’t look at a banana for a whole year after. She’d taught you how to drive, and had made you swear to secrecy how she’d screamed when you almost forgot how to stop—she had an image to keep up. She raised you in the ways too human for Kara; the things that your cousin knew of in theory, but no one had been there to show her how, so she’d needed the help.

Cat has walked up to you, and you’ve lost Kara for the moment—the blonde reaches your shoulder, at best. The Queen of all Media is peering up at you through dark lenses, and her hands have settled firmly on her hips. You make no comment how her chin wobbles for a moment, before she exhales. “I still don’t see why you have to go to college _here_ —National City has a perfectly fine university.” Her voice is peckish, and her jaw clenches, and when she sniffs it seems arrogant, but you can hear the swallowed tears.

So you hug her.

Wrap her small human frame in your arms, and curl around her like you’ve been able to do for so long now. There’s a token protest, a _stop it now_ , before she gives in and tucks her head under your chin and wraps her thin arms around your chest—she almost can’t make it all the way around, but she _squeezes_ as hard as she can. Making sure, even with your Kryptonian DNA, you can feel it.

“You know why,” you murmur, “Doing it on my own, remember?” You’d sat them down when the acceptance letters had started coming in; pretending you didn’t notice how they kept putting the one from the University of National City on top. Between the two of them, they owned the city—media magnate, and technology tycoon power couple, that wasn’t a couple, but still was.

Yeah, it even gives you a headache sometimes.

“You could’ve done it on your own closer to home.” She insists, leaning back, and fixing her shirt, like the two wrinkles would really kill her.

“How much do you donate to UNC every year?” You ask with a grin, eyebrow arched—Kara calls it your _Grant Brow_. Properly arrogant, and equally as condescending—no, she never says that within Cat’s earshot.

The blonde waves away the comment, but doesn’t answer—no answer might as well be an answer.

“—‘Lark! ‘Lark!” You don’t need to turn around to know the sound of wobbling toddler feet, and just as they’re about to reach you, you swoop down and pluck the child off the ground. Carter giggles while cramming his dirty hands against your cheeks—bits of grass still half curled into his fingers. “Home grass!” He’s declaring, even while Kara ambles up with a hand already rubbing the back of her neck, looking at everything but Cat—who is glaring, with her own _Grant Brow_ raised.

“Thanks, buddy.” You’re plucking grass from the collar of your sweatshirt, setting them down gently in his extended palms. “That was real thoughtful. Want to find a safe place to keep it? You can see my room.” Carter is thrashing his little body around in your arms, and you only need to look once at your _parents_ , before starting to walk inside, shrugging to Trevor who is walking backwards slowly toward the free concert and beer. There’s be more parties in your future; you’d much rather spend time with your family.

Little Carter Grant had come out of nowhere, but you can’t imagine life without your younger brother—familial relations as crooked as they are, there’s no question who everyone is to him. You will always be his older brother, his protector. Cat will always be mommy—soother of fevers, maker of soup, scolder of punishments. Kara will always be mama—procurer of secret ice cream, knower of every song, partner in crime. None of it has anything to do with blood; family rarely does. You don’t know how they make it work—how they can orbit so closely, but it works. They love each other, to the yellow sun and beyond—you wonder if they waited too long, or if their story is too convoluted.

You hope they figure it out.

Everyone else has.

Turning around at the door to see if they’re behind you, they haven’t moved, their heads ducked close; Cat’s hands still on her hips, Kara’s tucking blonde hair behind the CEO’s ear. You can hear whispers of _he’s going to be fine_ , as your cousin wipes a stray tear off Cat’s cheek, before pulling her into a hug. They fit together—not like a puzzle, not so perfectly, not like they were made for each other. But like they’d simply molded together—that, over time, they curved and twisted, until the patterns up their sides and across their hearts could only be matched by the other. A life lived had made them perfect for each other.

“Mommy? Mama?” Carter mumbles against your neck, thumb tucked behind his front teeth, and you hoist him a little higher.

“They’ll be right in, buddy,” you assure, and turn to walk inside, giving them some privacy.

Yeah, you really hope they figure it out.


	12. snap shot 12. ( 12, 24, 26 )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks; quick note. The rating has been bumped up to **M** , for _reasons_. And, I seemed to add an _e_ to Maxwell's name. Looks posh that way.

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. _Nothing happens how you expect; she slips silently into your life, and winds herself around your bones, and through your heart. Until, one day, you realize you can’t breathe without her. That she’s tangled herself through your lungs, and filled your chest. And you can’t regret it—can’t regret her—because without her, you have no idea who you’d become. What your life would be. Maybe there’s a world out there where you didn’t have her; where you struggled through life alone. You don’t wish to see that life._

* * *

Some nights you stand on the roof of your building, past the _no trespassing_ sign that had been there longer than you’ve leased the high rise apartment—a corner unit, with floor to ceiling windows. The view is virtually the same from your living room, but the barrier of glass takes something away from the thrill of being so high. The feeling of air rushing through your hair, and tugging at your clothes—goading you closer and closer to the edge, until only the sight of the pavement below will satisfy that _something_ in your chest.

It was years ago now that you’d tugged Kara up here for the first time—coaxing and coercing the nervous girl past the _no trespassing_ sign, and up the questionable stairs that didn’t groan, so much as scream when you put any weight on them. You’d thought she was scared—nervous about the height, about falling. A lot seemed to make Kara nervous, and it was a hitch in your heart when she trusted you to lead—when you’d feel her fingers curl firmly around your own, and she’d just smile—trust, curiosity, and something like awe.

You’d tugged her free of the stairwell, and a storm was snapping at the edge of the city—lightning flashing along the harbor, thunder sounding in the distance, counting the miles until landfall. The crawling dark clouds tugged themselves across the sky quickly—riding the brisk night wind. The stars were being swallowed—not that you could see many due to the lights, but the brightest ones always shone through the light pollution—being smoothed away in a black haze.

She’d looked at you then, blue eyes catching every flash of lightning, features pulled into something like uncertainty, “Are you sure?” she’d asked you, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat of her skin through both your clothes. Sometimes you forget you can’t simply stop everything and tell her that she’s beautiful—that she wore the elements of the storm artistically across her face. The slant of shadow cast off the sharp line of her cheeks, and down the blade of her jaw—sometimes you wished you could make a picture with paint and charcoal, instead of just words.

Kara deserved to be drawn—preserved in some museum with an obscure highbrow name; so that five centuries from now, when the world looked back on your empire—media empire, definitely, but if actual imperial rule came your way, you wouldn’t decline—they’d see why anything was worth it. The same as when Troy sent their fleet forth for Helena, the same as Cleopatra bent a patriarchy—you know deep down it’s the deluded thoughts of an in-love twenty-something. But that doesn’t make the thoughts—the desires—vanish, just kept them in your mind where they belonged.

Existing, but unspoken.

“Am I ever anything but sure?” You’d responded, walking backwards away from the door to the stairwell, catching her other hand so that you were leading her by both. “Do you trust me?” Utter sincerity had bled into your bones, pumped free of your blood by your galloping heart.

The next snap of thunder made the ground shiver.

“You know I do,” she’d smiled, and tugged a little, because the edge of the building was nothing more than a slight lip of cement, a waist high railing, and then a sixty foot drop.

Turning, you’d looked out at National City—this chrome and glass jungle you wished to rule—and inhaled deep. When you opened your eyes again, you felt that thrill in your spine, a current that tripped across your fingertips and tightened the muscles in your calves. “Do you ever get that split-second urge to jump?” You’d pressed your hands against the railing, leaning in until your stomach touched the top, and you could look down at the pavement below—the people threading through each other in a mad dash of movement.

“What?” She’d sputtered, in the middle of fixing her glasses, before she’d wrapped a surprisingly tight grip around your elbow to pull you back. “Cat, no.”

“I’m not suicidal, supergirl,” you’d drawled, delighted with her panic, though you’d soothed fingers softly up her forearms until her grip loosened. Watching at the white marks left from her fingers faded away to nothing. “The urge to jump—that little voice tittering softly about oblivion at the back of your mind.”

You’d been struck by the look on her face—a snap shot of a tucked brow, before everything flitted away and she was—someone else. Her blue eyes grew darker, pulling in whispers of the night, and her chin had tipped—it was nothing you could describe, even with the litany of words at your disposal, but it was _something_. Like Kara had stepped away for a moment and left someone else in her place—someone darker, or older, or simply— _other_.

“Call of the void,” she’d supplied, soft as a feather, nearly lost to a groan of thunder, “ _l’appel du vide_. Poe called it the _imp of the perverse_ , and Freud, _death drive_.” Eyebrow raised, you’d been prepared to snipe something about not realizing you’d been dating Google, but it was that _something_ that had stayed your tongue. Nothing silly like fear, or uncertainty, but the journalist in you—the watcher of humanity—wanted to keep your fingerprints off this moment. The unnoticed observer.

“The urge to step away, battling the desire to step forward. People say it’s a natural human instinct,” And like she was blinking awake, she stepped away from the rail, and closer to the center of the roof, leaving you at the edge. She’d smiled, wide and dopey—and that tingle at the back of your neck went away—Kara was back, and she was shrugging gracelessly, “Nope, can’t say I have.”

Sitting now, in that very same high rise apartment, under that very same roof, you know you’re watching that _other_ Kara—that replacement that seems to slip into her skin without warning. She’s miles away in a poorly lit television studio—shoulder to shoulder with Maxwell Lorde, as he leans over and whispers something in her ear. She smiles, wide and _off_ , and you wonder if she’s been like this long—like a marionette without strings—you’d seen her only once in almost nine months, and that’d been on the other side of the world in a warzone.

You’ve been home for five weeks now, and you’d seen neither hide nor hair from her since your plane had landed—your mother had fawned over you loudly, and to the cameras, at the airport, and Clark had been dropped off only an hour later. He’d crawled through your luggage, finding every gift intended for him, and you’d almost been able to forget about his absent cousin—the one you were sure was sitting on the roof waiting for him to finish. You’d wanted to march out and snag her by the ear—but Cat Grant does _not_ go to those who are in the wrong. No, you would wait her out—you’d win this imaginary war, with your battered hurting heart as prize.

“I’m sitting in tonight, with two of this generation’s sharpest minds—Maxwell Lorde, CEO of Lorde Technologies, and his chief of staff, K. A. Callaghan.” And dashing millennials they are. Lorde cuts a good figure—square in the shoulders, suit cut perfectly to his frame, no seams or snags as her perches on the stool. Pensive brow, light eyes, expensive haircut—just enough stubble to be mistaken as rugged. The same frat-house wet-napkin that had chased you through college; who’d instead coupled up with your nicer, and more understanding half—intellectually, of course.

It throws you for a moment to hear Kara’s last name said so casually—it’d been something of a hiccup in your youth, something that had seemed wrong, but you’d brushed it under the carpet like you’d done many things about the blonde. Callaghan had been the owner of the store Kara’d inherited—the relationship had never been cold, but it had warmed over time. Maybe you had let yourself forget those earlier years; knowing she's going by his name now, almost strictly, seems right.

“Cal’s more than my chief of staff,” Lorde laughs, clasping Kara by the shoulder and giving her a friendly jiggle; the nickname makes her eyes fall further out of focus, “She’s my better half, honestly—at least that’s what my wife calls her.” He’s charm, and excitement, and beside him Kara straightens—shoulders falling backward and out of that habitual slouch, burnished blonde hair tucked behind her ear.

“Your wife also calls me your common sense, and baby sitter,” all white teeth, and nervously adjusted glasses. There’s something _avian_ about Kara now—something flighty and nervous, but it’s endearing, and wholesome, and it makes you miss her—makes you want to un-see that imposter sitting in her cosmic blue eyes.

The host laughs, genuinely, “Now, I’ve heard a few different things, from a few different people—but word is that you started Lorde Technologies before you graduated college?”

Lorde smiles, “Which college? I’ve gone to a few,”

Kara rolls blue eyes behind thick lenses, “The first one, Max; you’re being obtuse on purpose.”

“So I am,” leaning away, almost out of frame, before leaning forward again, an elbow on his knee. “Yes, my junior year. A hefty loan, but I’d say it paid off.” Cue that dashing smile.

You almost groan at how predictable he is. You know what makes it intolerable to you is watching how he and Kara nudge shoulders, how she even loosens a little—hands still clasped in her lap, but less tight, her knuckles gaining back some color. You close your eyes, leaning your head back and only half listen to the rest of the interview—you’d been present when Lorde Technologies had gotten their first government contract, when they’d sold their electric car design, when Kara had designed some alien looking communication shell that had been promptly sold to the highest bidder. Their stock had been on a steady upward climb since that first breakthrough—and you couldn’t be prouder of her, even if you had to be proud of Maxwell by proxy.

Distance, and realizations, didn’t change that warm feeling in your chest.

Just made you feel the fool when it inevitably drums to life.

The drone of the television lulls you to sleep, the show kicking over to the news, which only makes you slap at the remote until something mindless and foreign comes on. You don’t know how long you sleep for, but it feels like a thousand years, and only a second, at the same time. Your head throbs because your neck hurts, and the few glasses of wine you’d had earlier slosh away in your empty stomach. You can’t tolerate the quiet anymore, it sits anxiously in your stomach, perpetually waiting—you’d grown too comfortable falling asleep to the sounds of dropping bombs and fly-bys.

Eons, and moments, later you open your eyes—blinking until your living room ceiling comes into focus, until the small chip in the paint grates on your nerves. Lulling your head to the side, your gaze tracks across the empty wine glass on the side table, the dark hallway leading to your bedroom, and—Kara sitting on the railing of your balcony. The wind snarls her hair, pulling it away from her face, and she’s not even watching you—she’s looking up. Eyes narrowed like she’s trying to see the stars through the light pollution of the city. Her shoulders are rounded and her hands only loosely clasp the railing—this must be a dream, because she’s barefoot, wearing pajama pants and the _University of National City_ sweatshirt she’d stolen from you ages ago.

This isn’t the creature that had torn through armed men like they were children, cracking knuckles like spent bullets and shattering cement without a thought. Who’d made men crawl over themselves to get away, who had thrown themselves—and you—into the sky with no fear of falling. No, this isn’t that. Nor is it the carefully crafted millennial who had powder across her nose and cheeks, with a shirt pressed, and a collar starched. Who was a billboard version of the actual human underneath—human? Maybe not. Clearing your throat quietly, you’re about to move, but that small sound seems to be all that’s needed to snare the attention of otherworldly eyes.

Kara’s looking at you, lip tucked between her teeth, fingers spreading wide, before loosely curling around the top of the railing again. She sits carelessly, no waver in her balance, no fear of the fifty-six story fall—it’s almost child-like, the way her spine undulates, before she settles back into her habitual slouch. Her lips have pulled into the smallest of smiles—soft and genuine—and that warmth in your chest spreads and conquers—melting the coldest edges of your heart.

Standing up, your shoulders crack, and you push your hands down your front—smoothing out wrinkles that have no hope of being removed without an iron, and steam. Walking toward the balcony, it’s silly to think all the stands between you, and her, is an inch of glass—and a thousand lies. Those seem impossible to surmount, but you _want_ to—you _want_ Kara to make you understand, to tell you things that will exonerate her wrongs. You’ve never wanted to forgive someone as readily as you do now—the world could have everyone else, you just wanted Kara.

Sliding the glass open, the chill in the air is only amplified by the height and wind, but you only wrap your arms around your stomach and step forward. The chill of cement against the bare soles of your feet. She watches you, baleful doe eyes refusing to blink—looking at you like she always has. Like you might blink out of existence if she looks away for even a moment.

“Lurking like a peeper is not how one should reacquaint themselves to someone,” you sniff, frowning and looking down your nose at her. You don’t appreciate how she smiles a little wider at the barb.

“I miss you.”

God, she says it so simply—so _earnestly_ , like it lived on the tip of her tongue for months, and she’d only waited for you to appear so that she could say it. This close you can see the tired glaze to her eyes, even behind the glasses she insists on wearing, how her slouch is messier—more burnt out—than usual. You think again of a marionette without strings—cut and left sprawled on stage.

She says _miss_ , not _missed_ , like you’re not standing in front of her—like you’re still three thousand miles away.

“Whose fault is that?” Bitter now, displeased with yourself that you want to say _I miss you too_ , because your heart is a treacherous thing.

“Mine.”

Frowning, you rub your hands up and down your arms—trying to stay warm, but really, you just need to do something with them. Otherwise you’ll do something stupid like reach for her; to see if her cheeks fit your palms as perfectly as they used to, to remember how she’d nose at your wrist and press her lips against your pulse.

You don’t know what to say—a strange sensation for a journalist.

“You asked me once if I ever heard that little voice—the one telling you to jump,” she leans back on the rail, and you can’t stop the startled step forward you take—like she had when she thought you would jump—but gravity doesn’t seem to hold any sway over her like it does you. She’s nearly flat, her hair falling down behind her, toward the ground—but she just…remains.

“I was being honest—I don’t,” she continues, leaning up like she wasn’t just defying physics, “It’s a human instinct—and I’m not human.”

You’d _known_ , you can’t say you haven’t known—because humans can’t bend knives with their stomach, or pluck bullets from their shoulder—or, hell, throw themselves into the sky. But having it said so _plainly_ , was startling, but you see how Kara looks at you— _afraid_. Like this bulletproof girl had anything to fear from you—no, but Kara? You see that same foolish warmth in her eyes, the match to the sweltering in your chest—fools, the both of you.

Your jaw unlocks, and you exhale loudly through your nose, “What are you?”

In your mind, you’re writing an article—something sensational, something eye-catching. _The Truth is Amongst Us!_

“ _Kryptonian_.” She looks hapless, floundering—saying words in that looping accent you haven’t heard in ages. That swallow tail lilt to her words that was half-song, half-declaration. She looks lost, but that tone is ancient—it’s imperial.

“That sounds like a clinical disease.” You say, nonplussed, “Try again.”

She heaves herself forward—somehow managing to shuffle even with her feet off the ground. When she’s standing, her shoulder lop up into a shrug, before she speaks. “I’m _Kryptonian_ ,” as if repetition will force it to make sense, “I’m from the planet _Krypton_.”

Planet—Krypton. The words slot next to each other easily enough, but their meaning is somehow lost in translation—like the definition had been erased out of the dictionary, and you were left with only the fundamentals. _Krypton_ , proper-noun. Swallowing, you exhale—trying to ignore how your heart hammers—how your palms sweat.

“You’re an alien,” you surmise, like this is just—a chat, something that came out naturally, just a silly quirk to the girl you’d been having sex with for the last few years. Hey, she’s an alien—no big deal.

Her lips press together, nervous, “I am.”

You growl in frustration, and when you step forward—she steps back, but she has nowhere to go, lower back hitting the railing. Your hands curl into the fabric of her stolen sweatshirt, her eyes widen, and when you press against her—she’s as hot blooded as you remember—her warmth bleeding through both layers while you keep her snared.

“I am not accepting this noncommittal bullshit, Kara,” you hiss, watching how her pupils dilate, spilling wide and black, swallowing the blue. You’re breathing hard through your nose, her lips have parted, her tongue running along the sharp line of her bottom teeth. Even fuming, some part of you wants to take that bottom lip between your teeth, to sooth your tongue over the petal and forget this _nonsense_ was even happening.

“I was twelve,” she hushes, her breath on your cheek, her eyes set to yours, “My planet was dying, and there was—no one could do anything.” It was something in the way she said _my_ ; as if the whole planet had indeed belonged to her. An aching ownership that throbs somewhere inside her—a bloodless wound.

You continue for her, “So your people left, and came to earth.” Following the implied trail, your fingers are loosening, fingers uncurling until your palms are just flat against her collarbones. You can feel how her breathing shakes, how her bones vibrate. Like you could rewrite history; could smooth over truths with a cult of personality. Make reality bend to your will.

But you’re a journalist—you should know the truth always comes out.

“No.” The word is sharp—the crack of thunder from all those years ago, miles off shore, a warning. “There wasn’t enough time.” Her jaw is working, her throat bobbing as she swallows, blue eyes nearly black, but glassy and distant. Like she was watching something far away—a hundred thousand light years for all you know—and you’re just...another witness.

You’re someone watching the recording of a tragedy—some horrible moment, which was captured and will live forever. Something you can’t touch, can’t change—but something that had its fingerprint on every aspect of your life, even if you didn’t know it. You watch it unfold across the smooth beautiful lines of Kara’s face—watch as it sinks into the shadows of her eyes, and the tense line of her lips.

“My cousin was sent away, a small stasis pod—small enough to escape Krypton’s unstable gravity.” Her pupils flicker back and forth, like she’s reading something you can’t see. “And—I was sent. To protect him—everyone else—no one—,” could a voice echo? Hollow and tinny like the vibrations in a can—she’s swallowing compulsively, a tear falling down her cheek. Her words aren’t making sense—not really—you catch _only me_ , somewhere in there, but nothing else. You don’t even think she’s speaking English anymore—the words are beautiful, and floating into each other, like the language itself doesn’t believe in gravity. Throaty and from the bottom of her chest—she’s hiccupping, her nose running.

You’re pawing at her cheeks like a dying man at an oasis in the desert—fingers tangling into her hair to try and force her to look at you—to _see_ you. But she’s looking inside herself, and you’re left whispering against her cheek— _Kara, come back, Kara_ —like your voice could be heard in space, where she surely is in her mind. “I saw it,” she’s hoarse, clenching her jaw, shifting her shoulders like they’re impossibly heavy; you wonder how much a planet weighs. “The core fissured—the centrifugal force—it—there was—like a firecracker in a closed fist.”

 _Snap_. The railing yelps as the metal bends and tears, a finger punched right through the steel, the rest seeming to whimper as Kara refuses to move her hand. The other hovers near your hip, fingers twitching, spread wide like she isn’t sure she has control of it. Removing one hand from her upper chest, you curl your fingers around her wrist, and guide her to your waist—holding her there firmly until she understands and grips onto you. The pressure is tight—painful, even—but she’s finally looking _at_ you, and not _through you._

Like you’re keeping her here on Earth.

Refusing to let her drift amongst the stars around her dead planet.

“Kara,” you say her name softly, hitting each letter carefully, and her lips pinch, like she’s trying to keep her chin from wobbling—like she’s trying to swallow this down, push it back inside. But you’ve seen it now, she’s allowed your fingers inside her heart, and there’s nothing cold and unfeeling in her. She’s everything good about this world—and she isn’t even _from_ it. She’s some wayward star walker, who’d drifted through the black until happening upon a little ball of blue on the other side of the galaxy—what were the chances? How small was the percentage that she would find herself here—that she would consume your life, and mark it with careful, loving fingers?

“Cat,” she sobs, your name a hiccup, the hand on your hip tightening, and you stop yourself from wincing, you feel the impossible force of her grip, but you don’t turn her away—she’s shattering before you, the cracks just below her skin splitting wide until she’s only pieces of herself. “I—I wanted to tell you; but—I—I was pretending.” There’s nothing pretty in how she’s crying now—nose running, eyes blurry and wet, her checks blotching with red marks—but she’s _beautiful_. “To be human—that—that I wasn’t...”

You swallow the last word with your lips, pressing against hers with a tender pressure, curling your fingers tighter in the burnished gold of her crown. She leans into you greedily, pressing against you like you’ve given her some kind of salvation—scooped her out of space yourself, and brought her home. Her tears are wetting your cheeks—or you’re crying too—and she’s opening her mouth, delving into yours with a sure tongue. Absent mewls are vibrating at the back of her throat, and you’re murmuring against her lips with every half-thought breath you take.

You have no words for her—no promises, no assurances, not even a forgiveness—because forgiveness is not something you could give her now. When you ache and bleed for her—when you see only sadness in her eyes, and desperation in her grip. Forgiveness is what happens sometime later—in all the moments after this one—when you’re both level headed, and not clambering to feel a part of something you miss. There’s a voice saying _you need this_ , and it pulses starved and wanting in your whole being—up your spine and through your chest. But you need to think about Kara—you need to slow, and step back—need to do…something. Even if it’s nearly impossible to think with how she’s pressing open mouthed kisses along your jaw, your head tipped back.

“Kara,” you hush, chewing on your bottom lip when a particularly enthusiastic kiss involves some teeth, you groan, but breath deep and guide her up to look at you. Her eyes are black, her lips swollen, and you need a moment to remember your intent. “We shouldn’t; we still need to talk.” About lies, and truths, and whatever comes between them—but she’s stepping into you, eyes wide, mouth murmuring words in that language you don’t understand. Trilling and soft, from the back of her throat.

“I need you,” she gasps, raw nerves and hunger, tripping over herself to get out of her own way, “I need to feel you.” Her hands are smoothing up your sides, rounding across your shoulders, before tripping back down—setting low on your hips, pulling you in. There’s a tensile strength in those fingers, but you know if you tried to move—you’d be able to. That she’d never keep you here against your will—that truth has nothing to do with humanity, or _Krypton_ , but with Kara. The gentlest soul you know.

“I’m here.” Your hands are on her cheeks, fingers behind her ears, thumbs running along the moist skin below her eyes. You’re searching for something in blistering blue—you aren’t sure what yet—but it is important, and you need to understand. This girl had lost everything—it is a fact you haven’t really wrapped your mind around, you’re _unable_ to, because it is so impossibly sad. So catastrophic—but she doesn’t need placations, she doesn’t need forgiveness—not right now. You see the doubt, the self-loathing, it lurks like a dark passenger in her eyes. She needs an assurance.

“What are you?” You ask; fingers hooking almost painfully into her hair, tilting her chin forcefully down to keep eye contact; she’s pliant and soft in your hands, as she always has been.

She blinks, mouth forming a word—the right word, her first instinct—before she swallows it, and says instead, “An alien?”

“Wrong,” you say, grip tightening on her jaw, pulling her down until her forehead is against yours—it’s a command, and the tone in your voice makes her shiver. “What are you?”

She’s breathing heavily, her nostrils flaring while she mouths around a word—it whispers against your lips, but you don’t actually hear it—you see it in her eyes, see it lingering, but you need to _hear_ it.

“Kara,” firm, leaning your body into hers, you hear the railing groan as she leans heavily back on it, “Say it, don’t mumble.”

And she breaks—trusting you to pick up her pieces, to collect her shards of self carefully in your hands—that you’ll hold onto her until she can begin slotting them back into place. It isn’t forgiveness—it’s something bone deep and intimate, beyond something so rudimentary. She’s kissing you again, hard enough that teeth click, hands quick and desperate down your sides as she grips the back of your thighs and hoists you up until you’re aching against the firm curve of her stomach, your ankles locked at her lower back. Kissing gets messier as you rest elbows on her shoulders, and curl your arm around her neck.

You don’t have to ask again—don’t have to whisper _what are you_ —because she’s whimpering the word into your mouth, “ _Yours_.”

So simple, so emphatic—so profound—like some weight has been removed from her shoulders. Blue eyes go soft and hazy, hands pawing mindlessly at your thighs, rocking your hips against her stomach. You catch a moan at the back of your throat, lulling your head back to allow her lips an uninhibited path up your neck. Kara mouths your skin carefully, keening quietly from her chest, nipping at your pulse—laving attention to the dip of your shoulder, where she catches the tendon between her teeth, press just enough to you feel a prick of pain.

She is a conquered titan beneath your hands, gazing up at the peak of mount Olympus, supplicating herself before you; and you can’t find it in yourself to feel deserving of that devotion. It live in her beautiful face like phantom touches, traced across the line of her brow, and down the straight line of her nose. You feel how her body moves—the muscles ripples like waves beneath her skin, prowling with strength, struck through with power—but grace has never been her strongest quality. Her bare foot catches the raised divider for the sliding glass door—tipping her forward, which in turn made you tense and curl against her chest, waiting for the fall.

But you only feel the roll of her hips against you; gently set against the carpet, you open your eyes to see how she’s caught both your bodies with one hand on the ground—shoulders slanted, muscles playing beneath your fingers.

Kara doesn’t seem to care, she’s pushing your shirt up, fingers working twice as hard as needed to clumsily smooth over your stomach, followed by an eager mouth. She’s half hunched, your knees along her sides as you curl fingers in her hair—directing her absently, tugging, and scratching at her scalp. She’s humming in her chest as teeth nip and bite their way down to your navel, pressing her cheek to your hip while nosing the top of your pants. Slipping her tongue just below to slick across the sensitive skin there. Raising slightly to bite gently at your belly button, circling it with her tongue, before insisting again at the soft curve at the bottom of your belly.

Silently—desperately—asking for permission.

You growl, lifting hips off the ground as your only answer, so she can hastily pull them down your thighs, not even being able to wait until they’re off before kissing the wet spot on your underwear—she moans plaintively, lapping hungrily at your center, forgetting that she wants your pants off, leaving them bunched lewdly at your knees.

The hand you have in her hair is possessive—and the feeling in your chest is like a spreading forest fire, no hope to corral it, to find some tucked away strand of control. Your body responds to her touches like it always has—eagerly, without thought—you’re rocking your hips against her, even though she still hasn’t removed the thin barrier of silk between her mouth and where you need her. You are burning alive, sweat pooling at the dip of your collarbones, and beading at your temples—not seeming to mind the chilly air filtering into the room. No, you’re a house fire, and she is your foundation—the cement stones that will remain after everything had charred away.

There’s something visceral about the sound of tearing silk—something satisfying and salacious—you feel the press of the fabric against your skin, before it’s torn away, curled between strong fingers, before it is cast to the side, and left on the floor. Something shamefully close to a scream erupts from your throat, head thrown back, writhing against the carpet, legs splayed carnally open. Hands kneading into the give of your hips, lifting you just enough toward a ravenous mouth—tongue coaxing and sumptuous, laving attention indiscriminately. There’s something primal in how she groans into your heat, mouth wet, nose bumping against your clit—animal and consuming.

You’re breathing ardently through your nose, gasping for full breaths, but you have no hope of holding out, no hope of keeping any thoughts about you—it has been months, and you’d been able to pretend you didn’t miss this when you’d been a world away, when the restless energy in your bones could be relegated to adrenaline and sleepless night. But here, shamelessly being taken on the floor of your living room—feeling how hands dig, and press, like they simply need the assurance that you are not going to spill through her fingers. That you are solid, and real.

You tug, guiding her up your body until she’s holding herself over you; Kara’s eyes are _blue_ , bright and otherworldly, and she looks at you like someone who has seen the stars—has danced through their gravitational pull and went on her way. But you’ve caught her—with a hand curled around the back of her neck, she blinks slowly at you—you’d seen what she was capable on. The impossible feats, the strength lining her bones, but under your hand she is pliant, easily directed— _yours_. Fingers slick, pressing against you intimately, before curling inside you—two fingers, and then three. You keen, gasping on a lost breath, burning inside—you know it won’t take long, only a moment.

Your body knows her weight on top of you, how she fits perfectly into the cradle of your hips, thrusting against the back of her hand to go deeper—she’s huffing against your lips, out of breath, even if you’re certain that shouldn’t be the case, that it takes much more to wind her. Blue eyes wild, and soft, and there’s a comet tail’s version of love there—lingering in the almost golden ring around her blown pupils. Something low in your stomach tightens, crawling out into every nerve in your body, you can’t get a full breath in—or out—your hung untouched in the sky like a star.

“I love you,” Kara’s voice is a whisper, cracking and frail, brittle at the edges—like this admission with shatter her—but she can’t keep it inside, can’t let it live unsaid in her chest. This isn’t the first time she’s said it—not even close—but you haven’t heard those words in months, almost a year. And like a rubber band; that feeling in the pit of your stomach snaps, and you shudder. Desperately clinging to her, fingers digging and pulling at the solid line of her shoulder, curling into the fabric of her stolen sweatshirt. You see a kaleidoscope of color against the lids of your eyes, and her name spills like a prayer off your tongue. Kara holds you as you come down from your high—as the electricity runs like live wires over the tips of your fingers. She’s mouthing words against the side of your neck— _I love you, I love you, I love you_ —and for a moment, time stops.

You don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow—or any of the days after—but for right now, you have her here. Have Kara safely under your palms, even if you’re half-dressed on the floor, with her shaking frame bracketing you to the carpet. Cradling her head against the side of your neck, you hum low in your throat, coaxing her to relax until all her weight is on you—pressing you down, but it’s a comforting weight. Secure and familiar.

“I love you too,” you assure, lips light against the shell of her ear, tucking your nose into the golden strands behind it, “I always will.” It’s a promise—a vow—and you have no doubts in its truth. You’ll always love her; until the stars go dark, and the world stops turning. But the manner might change—you can’t go back to how you were a year ago, ignorant and happy. Because the world has suddenly gotten so much bigger—so much more complicated. So much still needs to be said, so much needs definition and meaning, but—you're  _tired_ , and loved, and comfortable. You can define this—

Tomorrow.

You’ll think about it tomorrow.


	13. snap shot 13. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (ALEX).**   _The world’s always struck you as a big place—impossibly large—but when you think about it; it’s only a tiny speck of blue in the expanding black of the universe. A hint of something, in the resounding nothingness of space. But she found her way here—and you’re glad for it while it lasted. She became family, filled a hole in your heart you didn't realize existed._

* * *

You’re fifteen when the sky falls.

Well, when the largest recorded meteor shower hits the mid-west.

Your father had gotten you a telescope for your eleventh birthday; when you’d asked him the difference between the sun and any of the other stars in the sky. He’d told you distance, and the next day there was a telescope in the attic. No one at school knows you still have glow-in-the-dark stars on your bedroom ceiling, or a sliding glass map of the constellations you bring out every night. You tell yourself it isn’t a secret, because nothing so _stupid_ should be as such, but you still don’t tell anyone.

You’re captain of the junior varsity track team, deciding to stay even when the coach had wanted to promote you to varsity—you were the biggest fish in a small pond, you weren’t going to change anything until you knew the same would be true for the next pond you found yourself in. Your boyfriend dumped you for one of the cheerleaders, saying you weren’t _soft_ enough—that girls were supposed to have _give_ , and you hadn’t been too keen on that. Your boyfriend dumped you for a cheerleader—and you’d given him a bloody nose to remember that by.

No, you weren’t _soft_ —no, you didn’t have _give_.

Tucking your legs, your father had told you about a meteor shower—it’d been in the dark spot behind the moon until the very last minute; he’d only known about it because of a colleague at work who said NASA was astounded by the sheer number of meteors. Thousands were blanketing the horizon, tripping in and out of shadows, orbiting like planets in the snare of the sun. Orbiting around what, they didn’t seem to know. Your father had promised he’d be here to watch for it with you—the trajectory made it impossible to judge where it would land—but he’d gotten stuck at work, and when he’d called, you’d refused to say anything. Leaving your mother to inform him of your self-imposed silence.

Its three o’clock in the morning when the first flash rockets across the sky—too far away, too quick—but so many follow. They swarm and scream across the black of night, toss themselves into the distance, most burning up before they have hope of landing—but the largest seems to only fall faster, to burn hotter. And it is streaking through the dark and over the roof of your house. You see how it heats—not rock, at least it doesn’t look like rock—it looks almost...metallic. Getting up, you rush across the attic and see how it shudders, dropping strangely—not like how a meteorite should. It stops abruptly, losing altitude, before going forward much slower, lowering into the forest at the edge of the property.

Throwing on your track jacket, and slipping into your sneakers, you rush as quietly as you can down the stairs—making sure to avoid the creaking fourth step so you don’t wake your mother. Locking the screen door, and making sure your flashlight works, you take off through the field behind your house—uneven and barren, since your family wasn’t one of the farming homesteads. The meteorites still fall overhead, screaming across the sky, illuminating your path until you get to the edge of the property—the forest is chained away from most edges, due to the deep tangle of swamps inside. Three children had drowned over the last few years, and the town had decided it was best to black off the area; since filling it would cost far too much money.

Hooking fingers in the fence, you scale it without much effort, passing the large red sign that’d been worn away from the sun— _DANGER: NO TRESSPASSING._ Landing heavily on the other side, you wait until you pass the first line of trees before clicking your flashlight on. Pushing through hanging foliage, there’s no path to be spoken of, but you find what could have been one years ago—worn in dirt, and a bow of branches above it. You see no signs of the meteorite—if that was what it was—and after a half hour of looking, you’re about to turn back when you hear it—sobbing. It sounds _wrong_ coupled with the chirp of cicadas, and it pulls you further into the swamp—sloshing through knee deep bog water, and clambering up onto the other bank before you see it.

A ship.

A _space ship_.

When you get close enough—you see the last fading light from the intricately whorled end, the gleaming sides cooling, steam hissing into the air. There’s a glass cover popped open, the inside a flicker of lights—very dull, no noise—but when you walk around the edge, still giving it wide berth, you see her.

She’s young—younger than you—hands slapped over her ears, sobbing into the moss. She doesn’t seem to realize that she’s half in the bog water—her dark blonde, almost red hair floating in the murky water. Her body shudders like her very bones are popping out of place—a girl in your English class had had a seizure once, and you’d ever been more terrified. The school nurse had come in the next day to tell everyone what to do in that situation—you don’t think that lesson applies here.

She’s wearing all white—though most of it is muddy and brown now—and when she releases her head, you see—a glow. Two burning ambers where eyes are supposed to be—her face is rounded, chin pointed and cheekbones defined, but she’s just so—so _young_. Her face is wet with tears, and you realize the sobbing isn’t just crying—she’s saying something. In a language you don’t understand. It sounds—you can’t even place it—but it’s haunting. Beautiful, and sad. She’s looking directly at you, but those burning ret dots where eyes are supposed to be seem to look right through you.

She’s shuddering, pushing the palms of her hands against her eyes while screaming—it’s shattering, and before you realize it—you’re stepping back and tripping into the swamp. Water splashes up and swallows you, your foot getting tangled in the reeds and vines at the bottom—you panic. You hadn’t been able to take a full breath before you’d fallen under—your lungs already burning, and it had only been a moment. Thrashing only tangles you in the jacket half falling off your shoulders; as dots burst against the inside of your eyelids, as your eyes open in some desperate bid to see something. There’s only graying murky water—it whorls in your ears, little dots, almost like static, swim in the dark.

Before everything goes dark, you see two burning red dots.

When your mind crashing back into focus, you’re gasping for breath on the ground—moss soft and moist under your clenching palms, disgusting water slicking through your hair. When it gets easier to breath, you look up to see the girl—her eyes have dimmed, only the faintest glow behind her irises, and she’s looking at you— _at_ you, not _through_ you. Her white clothes are soaked through, and she had a fist full of reeds in one hand. She looks devastated, like some horrible truth has dug itself into her bones—spilled like poison in her blood. Her back is pressed against the spaceship, and the hand not clenched around reeds is clutching a necklace.

“Thank you,” you say, bracing yourself on your forearms—tense, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. She isn’t the type of alien you were expecting—she just looks like a girl; a girl with impossibly sad blue eyes. Her jaw works, and she’s clenching her eyes shut—shaking her head, like she’s trying to dislodge something.

“ _Klarh ke,_ ” she murmurs, and you squint.

“What?” Your voice is hoarse, the strain of nearly drowning tightening your air way.

“ _Klarh ke_ ,” she says again, her own brows tucking, as she presses a hand against the side of the ship, pushing herself to her feet—you follow, but don’t get any closer.

“Clark?” You ask, and she looks at you like you’d done something interesting—chin lifting, blinking rapidly, and ignoring the tears still slipping unhindered from reddening blue eyes. “Who’s Clark?”

She swipes hair out of her eyes, and you notice now that she’s standing that she’s barefoot—she reaches only to your shoulder, and her frame is slight. She’s not a very impressive alien. “ _Klarh ke, Kal-el._ ” She’s leaning over the edge of the ship, into what appears to be the cockpit; hitting the dashboard, and the lights grow brighter—splash across the slant of her cheeks, where her face is mottled with dirt and rotting leaves.

She must find whatever she’s looking for because she turns to look at you—squinting, like it’s hard to see you, like it takes all her concentration—it would be kind of lame to meet an alien that needed glasses. She’s shaking her head, but something tells you she doesn’t realize it—her frame swaying rhythmically, and her finger tapping against the necklace around her neck— _tap, ta-tap, tap, ta-tap_ —it isn’t for almost a minute that you realize her tapping matches your heartbeat perfectly. You’ve learned how to measure your heartrate while running—and the rhythm is unmistakable.

The realization kicks your heartrate faster, you can feel it gallop at the back of your throat—her tapping gets faster. “I’m Alex—Alex Danvers,” you try, hoping the shake in your voice isn’t obvious, the way your skin pebbles and your muscles tense. Her chin tips, and she’s stepping away from you—and suddenly you feel the monster. She’d saved you from drowning, but now she looks like you might very well devour her whole.

She stops when her barefoot sinks into swamp water, and glances at you, “ _Kara_ ,” it’s lilting and floating, like everything else she’s said, but it feels like a name—so you smile. She watches you, and after a moment, something of a smile flits across her face—it’s clenched and unsure, but adorable nonetheless.

And then she’s gone.

The leaves bristle like something impossibly fast has passed them, and where she’d been standing there is up churned moss. Like her foot had dug in before she’d disappeared—you lingered for an hour, sitting cross legged in the dark until the spaceship yawns, the hatch closing and the lights flickered off. It wasn’t expecting her back—you probably shouldn’t either.

* * *

You never told anyone about the alien in the swamp—about the girl and her ship. You went back every night, and the ship sat there—untouched, growing into the swamp. Almost a year later, it vanished—and you recognized the small indent in the ground—the same as the girl had left when she fled. “I hope she found Clark,” you murmur, while clicking your flashlight off and heading back home.

* * *

You’re nineteen when you return for your junior year of university; dodging around all the parents settling their children in for freshman year, ignoring the pamphlets and posters being handed out by frat houses and sororities. Your mother had headed back home when you told her you were just going to be spending the night in your dorm—getting ready for the beginning of classes next week, knowing your schedule was loaded heavier than you probably should have done. You wanted to get out of school as soon as possible; you didn’t have the luxury of lingering around to dabble in rhetorics with new-age thinking hipsters.

Your father had died three years ago—the government hadn’t been particularly forthcoming, but they’d delivered a flag to your mother, and apologized sincerely. You’d cried yourself to sleep for a week, before you’d squared your shoulders and asked to GED out of high school—eager to start your trek through the rest of school so you could find the answers you were looking for. Double majoring in biological engineering, and astrophysics, National City University had been the best option still close enough to home for your mother to visit occasionally. You’d been accepted to colleges further away—on either coast—but you decided to stay closer to home.

You don’t recognize her at first because she’s laughing—eyes hidden behind thick framed glasses, and her lips pulled into a wide grin—she’s lopping down the path backwards, staying one step ahead of the small boy chasing her. She almost knocks into two people before you hear the whip sharp _Kara_ that makes her stop immediately in place—the boy plowing into her legs and wrapping himself around them. She’d grown up, her hair lightening to blonde, her bangs gone, but you could recognize her anywhere—you dream of her sometimes—of where she was, if she ever found Clark. She’s taller than you now, lithe and wearing a hideous amount of pastel—the print seems to be baby ducks—but the smile is the biggest difference.

You don’t realize you’re walking closer until you can see the blonde that has approached the giggling pair—she’s short, only reaching the alien’s nose, but she way she jabs a fingers against a pastel yellow covered sternum lets you know who exactly is keeping this extraterrestrial in line. The little boy is hoisted up onto the shorter woman’s hip, his hands already mashed into perfectly coiffed blonde hair, and no one seems to care about stopping him. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’ve pressed together; the little boy making gagging sounds while covering his eyes.

If you didn’t recognize her, they would be indistinguishable from any other pair on campus—the way a hand lights around the other’s back and hips, lips pulled into a soft smile. They’re murmuring, standing in the middle of the path, heedless of the human traffic they’re forcing to step around them. The alien presses lips against the small blonde’s temple, eyes closed, but when they open—she sees you. Blue eyes widen, and lips fall open slightly; before her nose tucks further into her companion’s hair, and you see her lips moving. Her eyes never leaving you—you remain standing, hand loosely clasped around the strap of your satchel.

The smaller blonde glances in your direction, and you meet the shrewdest green eyes you’ve ever encountered—a nervous shiver tripping up your spine—before she nods curtly, and puts the boy on the ground, walking toward the cafeteria. _Don’t be long, supergirl_ , is called over her shoulder while the small boy pulls the wheeled suitcase behind him, the blonde’s hand on his back to keep him in a straight line. The alien watches them go—her face soft and open, _loving_ —and you’re left swallowing back all those nerves you’d built in your bones for years. Somehow you knew you’d see her again—but it had never occurred to you that it would be like this. You’d expected labs and soldiers—something involving national security.

Not orientation week.

When she’s standing before you, you’re looking for differences—things that separate her from humanity, that place her properly amongst the stars, but there’s nothing. Her arms are curled across her stomach, like she’s trying to protect herself, fingers toying with a stray piece of fabric that was coming free from her sweater. She’s blinking owlish blue eyes at you from behind thick lenses—and you can only think about how lame you’d thought a near-sighted alien was—all the while chewing on her lip. There’s a fear in those eyes, a nervous twitch in her finger, like she’s ready for the world to tumble down upon her head.

“Did you ever find Clark?” You ask, to break the silence—to swallow the jackrabbit pace of your heart—and her eyes widen, almost taking a step back.

“I—yeah,” she breaths out—in English this time, and you can’t find any hint of an accent. She sounds like a National City native—a little quick, rushing through the words like there were so many more to say. You wonder how long it took her to adopt it—how long to learn English. “Yeah, I found him.”

“Good.”

She’s chewing her lip, looking quickly in the direction of the cafeteria, like her rescue will come from that way—and you can’t understand why she’s afraid. _She’s_ the alien. She must settle on something because she shoves a hand in your direction, “Kara.” She says, lips tripping into a smile—it’s a pretty smile, soft at the edges, and kind.

Accepting her hand, you feel how her skin is hotter than a human’s—not by much, nothing noticeable, unless you’re looking; and you are—and she has the loosest grip you’ve ever encountered. Barely holding your hand at all, “I remember,” you remind, making sure she understands that this wasn’t some hazy recollection, some displaced face. “Alex Danvers.”

She lets go, and a tongue peaks out to wet her bottom lip, “I remember.”

You didn’t imagine it would be this _awkward_ ; but she’s looking at you like she has no idea how to proceed, her finger tapping along the back of her forearm—and it takes you only a moment to realize it is your heartbeat. A nervous tick, you realize.

“I never told anyone,”

She does smile now—wider, more genuine—and it’s _beautiful_ , it warms something in your chest, and you want to make her smile more—her eyes have dark edges to them, the haunted look you remember from that night lives in your dreams still. You’re glad she can smile—regardless of _what_ she is.

“I know,” she looks down, and then back up to meet your eyes, “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.” She’s so _achingly_ genuine, but she blinks and looks off to the side—the blonde from before is outside the cafeteria, a tray balanced in her hand, while trying to corral the boy skipping around her legs, two bottle of water in his hands. Her smile is small, but full of love.

“I mean—” you wheedle, “You aren’t a very impressive looking alien.”

She frowns—a pout—and shakes her head, “I’m _very_ impressive!” She’s incredulous, and huffing, and it’s _adorable_ , but you can tell that isn’t what she’s going for. Like watching a puppy bark.

“I don’t know,” exhale, shrug, “You even need glasses.”

The frames were pulled from her nose, dramatically flared in your direction, “Ha!” She grins, “I don’t really need these.”

“Oh no, help me; she has 20/20 vision.” You arch an eyebrow, showing her how _unimpressed_ you are; she’s shoving the glasses back on her nose and scuffing a shoe against the ground, hands smoothing down her pastel green skirt. You don’t know why you’re provoking her, but the way she’s floundering about makes it worthwhile. She’s just a kid—it’s in the way she keeps glance to the seated blonde and the dark haired boy with her, keeping them in sight even while defending her absolutely stellar ‘alienness’.

“I could destroy this whole city,” huffing, arms crossed, before her eyes blow wide, and she’s scrambling, “Not that I _would_ —or—or— _want_ to, but I—no, this came out wrong—”

She’s fumbling, tripping over herself to explain, wide puppy eyes imploring, and you can only laugh—you can’t tell if that makes her more, or less, nervous, but you can’t stop.

This confrontation had been sitting in your stomach like an ulcer since you were fifteen—the knowledge that you had met a legitimate extraterrestrial. You’d gone home that night, waiting for some kind of catastrophe in the morning—city burning to the ground, massive ships in the sky. But there’d been nothing—only the briefest mentions of the meteor shower with the weather.

“Kara,” you sooth, touching her shoulder—she’s solid, like touching a wall, and you suddenly take her claim into consideration—you’d seen how her eyes burned, how fast she left. But—Kara doesn’t strike you as the world ending type. “Relax.”

Her shoulders slump, and she wilts only slightly, before blinking down at you—searching for something, blue eyes flickering before she nods. “You’re not scared,” she says it like she’s confused.

“No,” you begin, slowly, “I’m not; but, how would you know?”

Her finger taps the back of your hand slowly— _tap, tap, tap, tap—_ she smiles, “Your heart’s beating slowly,” she stops tapping, “and you don’t— smell afraid.”

You see it now—that little hitch it takes her to translate whatever she’s thinking, into words—into explanations.

“I’m glad I don’t—smell.” You follow slowly, and she has the decency to blush, and you take note of that—she’s so damned _human_ , but—not. Something must snag her attention, because she looks back toward her companions—the boy is running with the bottle of water open, and the blonde is watching him lazily, chin in hand, obviously having given up trying to keep him seated.

“I have to go,” looking at you, she bites her lip, before smiling, “It’s good to see you, Alex. I’ll—see you around?”

Sniffing, you smile, “I’m sure you will, ET.”

* * *

You don’t talk to her again that semester—only see her once, the as of yet nameless blonde that was with her seems determined to not bowl at the bowling alley just off campus. Kara’s helping the boy—you assume, Clark—roll a bright orange ball down the lane—bracketing him between her knees and cheering when his manages to hit more than one of the pins. She twirls him around and sets him back on the ground, where he bolts toward the blonde whole doesn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t just as excited. He clambers on top of her, and wraps his little arms around her neck, kissing her on the cheek.

Kara glances your way once, but only offers a small finger wave before wrapping herself around her family.

* * *

So when you’re twenty-four, and Kara’s escorted into the Department of Extra-Normal Operations with a bag over her head; wrists held by zip ties behind her back—you panic. You think of the little boy that’s going to miss her, and the small blonde that looks at her so _tenderly_ , and suddenly you’re questioning this whole endeavor—this whole agency.

“Sir?” You ask Hank Henshaw, the man in charge of the entire operation—he looks at you sideways, hands settled on his hips, tipped forward slightly with the weight of his belt. His eyes are impossibly dark as always, and you get the feeling you always do—like he’s plucking around in your mind—like he knows what you’re thinking. You’re thinking nothing now—a splash of color, and a speck of fear.

“That’s our newest consultant—we bought a contract from Lorde Technologies,” he explains, slowly, carefully, picking each word with all the thought he’s capable of. “They’ve shown a lot of advancement in the areas we’re interested in.”

You hedge, “And she’s being restrained because?”

Hank smiles, “Her backgrounds a little suspect; they’re vetting her as we speak. Most think she’s an immigrant that was sent to an older relative, and her paperwork’s a little questionable because of it.” He’s just looking at you—like he wants to know what you think about this—like he knows what you think about this.

“Agent Danvers, why don’t you make sure they’re treating our newest recruit with all due respect.” You nod abruptly, and turn on your heel, stalking down the hall with enough determination to send soldiers skittering out of your way. You find her in one of the interview rooms at the end of the hall; wrists now zip-tied in front of her, the bag removed and she’s left blinking up at the bright light in the ceiling. The walls are foot thick cement, and you’re behind the one two-way mirror.

You watch her, how she picks at her thumb nail, twisting uncomfortably, and one shoe sliding off her foot over and over, until she just leaves it off. She fidgets and huffs, before something makes her look at the mirror. She blinks, slowly, and then her finger starts tapping— _ta-tap, ta-tap, ta-tap_ —and you smile. She knows you’re here—how, you have no idea, but you see how she tilts her chin down and then she’s making direct eye contact with you.

Opening the door, you step inside, with the file you’d plucked off the table from the other room—sitting down, you watch her slowly—how she rolls her shoulders, and looks at the mirror again—staring, and you know someone is on the other side. She blinks and looks back at you—those big blue eyes imploring, scared, but determined.

“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger, Miss Callaghan.,” you begin, opening the file, and spreading it out in front of you, “but you must understand how important discretion is; especially for those we haven’t finished looking into yet.”

Nodding, she lifts her wrists, “But handcuffs?” She smiles, uncomfortable, “I mean—I’ll just—okay. No, no—this is fine.” Like she’s talked herself out of whatever she’s about to ask. You sign, and with a snap have your knife open—a flick of the wrist has the ties cut. She grins, “Thanks.”

“Your grandfather—Thompson Callaghan, he is deceased, correct?” You watch how her eyes dim, just slightly, and she sniffs—looking down at the picture from her college identification card. She’s impossibly young in the picture.

“Yeah—um, yes.” She stutters, chin threatening to wobble, and you want to stop—but you can’t, “Two years ago.”

“Do you have any living relatives?”

“Yes,” she surmises, breathing in deep and exhaling, “My grandfather’s brother—Percival Callaghan, he runs Enforce Publishing.” You recognize the name just because of how often you’ve seen in on textbook bindings—but when you glance down at her file, the name is printed there in neat letters, with a confirmation that someone had indeed approached Percival Callaghan, and he’d confirmed this girl’s identity. “And—my cousin. I have a young cousin.”

Clark Callaghan, nine years of age. Flipping the paper over, you see pictures of the two people mentioned; a distinguished elderly gentleman, gray hair and blue eyes, with a no-nonsense air about him, and a young boy with dark hair. The same blue eyes as the girl sitting across from you. Kara was born to Thompson Callaghan’s son, and Clark, to his daughter—they’d both died in a fire in Alberta ten years ago. There’s a photocopy of four Canadian passports—all expired by five years, at least. You scan the names, and wonder how long this took to fabricate— _Calvin J. Callaghan, Samantha R. Callaghan, Kara A. Callaghan, Clark G. Callaghan._

“Do you, or have you ever, participated in a group that intends to overthrown, or otherwise negatively affect, the United States government?” Kara looks flabbergasted, brow tucking, and you’re glad you cut the tie holding her wrists together because she might have ripped them when her hands shifted abruptly—taken aback by the question.

“What?”

You sigh, closing your eyes to hide the fact that you’re rolling them, “Answer the question, Miss Callaghan.”

She’s slow on the uptake, two questions behind, it seems—until she’s suddenly on board. “No, no—of course not; why—who _does_ that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

She presses her lips together, “Am I in trouble?”

It’s the way she asks it—the genuine concern in her eyes, that has your fingers curling—you want to protect her, this girl who seems to flit in and out of your life without mention. You grew used to seeing her around campus; at the cafeteria, in the drama department, at the labs—she’d always wave slightly, smiling, and you’d watched her go about her life. Always with the diminutive sharp eyed blonde, and the dark haired boy who grew taller, and taller, every time you saw him.

“There’s been a few concerns raised with your citizenship papers,” you exhale, calming your heart—or, trying too, because Kara’s hand is still tapping away swiftly at the table. Breathing out through your nose, you pull out the birth certificate that the investigation unit unearthed. “This is your birth certificate, yes?”

She reaches to pick it up—information typed neatly on the pink and blue sheet, date and hour of birth, her full name, town, and her parents’ names. _Kara Ainsley Callaghan_ large across the top, and she places it down on the table, jaw clenching, and you think you almost see a light behind her blue eyes—a very faint flicker of red.

“It is, yes,” she exhales.

“Were you born in the United States?” You ask, and your eyes say to tell the truth, or whatever version of the truth goes with this lie—the file already established that the birth certificate and social security card were fake—impossibly good ones, but fake nonetheless. “I implore you to tell the truth.”

Swallowing, her hands press against the table—you watch as Kara spreads her fingers wide, and she looks once again at the two-way glass. Her brows furrowing, before nodding slightly—absently—like someone had just told her something important. “No.” Shoulders rounding with a slump, she leans back in her chair, fingers fiddling with the corner of her glasses—a nervous habit, “Canada.”

That agrees with what was in her file—you don’t know how they determined this, but Hank Henshaw’s signature is at the bottom—signing off on this file, as long as Kara corroborates it. As long as she didn’t lie. You are astounded, and it must show somehow, because Kara gives a small shrug—you know she’s not from Canada, but somehow, that’s what has become the truth. The stipulation of a six month probationary period, where she will be blindfolded when taken to headquarters is mandatory.

“Well, let me be the first to say. Welcome to the DEO, Miss Callaghan.”

Kara grins, “He turned off the recording, Alex; and left.” Leaning forward, hands folded over each other as she swipes at the hair falling in her eyes, “Can you believe it?”

“That _you_ are working for the DEO?” She has to understand the irony in this.

“No,” faltering, “Well—yes, but _no_ ,” another smile, “That we’re work buddies now!”

* * *

Kara has half the department wrapped around her finger by the end of the first month—practically skipping in with the bag over her head—they stopped zip-tying her wrists after the second day. She’s sharp—quick to solve problems, and able to cobble together solutions with an almost MacGyver resourcefulness. The first time she witnessed an alien being captured—she cried, quietly at the back of the operations room—and she’s followed the pale green skinned extraterrestrial with sad blue eyes. She looks at you with a renewed fear, something saying— _that could be me_ —but she keeps her mouth shut.

Hank has taken to the blonde alien—you’re pretty sure you’re the only one to notice, since they’re never seen together, but it’s just something in the way they catch each other’s eyes. From across rooms, down halls—the first day after the probationary period, Hank is the one who drives her. He asks you one afternoon to get in contact with immigration—about going about documentation for the Canadian scientist on their payroll. He knows something you don’t—or, maybe, he knows something that you _do_ —but in so many ways that doesn’t make sense.

When you hand Kara a United States passport with no preamble, it’s worth it—the way her eyes light up, the way she smiles. Throwing her arms around your neck and pressing her cheek against yours—she’s strong, her grip bordering on painful, but you hug her back. She’s wormed her way into your heart, found a nice little spot in there to stay a while.

* * *

You’re thirty four when you attend Kara’s funeral.

You tell yourself not to cry, but you can't help it; it feels like you've lost a sister.


	14. snap shot 14. ( 2, 18, 30, 32 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**.  _Would your younger self recognize you? Would they look up at where you’ve settled yourself at the top of the world, and wondered what you were willing to give up to get there. You say nothing—but things slip through the crack. Important moments that you can’t buy back with all the money, and all the influence you’ve amassed._

* * *

You’re exhausted when you finally get the key in the door, practically falling over yourself to get inside—and promptly to bed. The projector that Kara and Clark had “installed” is still duct taped to the ceiling—they cancelled every maintenance appointment you made; scowling at the idea that some _human_ could do a better job than them. You always were skeptical when they started getting xenophobic about it; you estimated that you had another week or two before they washed their hands of the whole thing and decide it wasn’t worth their time. You’d seen Kara piece together a brain scanner with paperclips and some tin foil, and yet Samsung had her number.

Right now, the projector was splashing SpongeBob SquarePants across the far wall; the colors a little saturated, because along with the duct taped projector—they needed to decide on a screen. From the doorway, you look down the hall toward the bedrooms, and all the lights are out—much the same way with every other room. Turning around the corner into the kitchen, you grab a bottle of water and lean against the cool metal of the fridge.

It was almost midnight, and you were just getting home; you could’ve been home hours ago, but you were always the last out the door, and sweeps was coming up. Your staff pitching ideas for segments until almost eleven—and then working on licensing prospects and schedules. It had been a mess—and it will still be waiting for you when you walk in the door tomorrow at the crack of dawn. You tell yourself it will only be like this for now—CatCo is getting to where it has to be, getting recognition, and when that happens—what? You’ll stop? No, you’ll move forward, to the next biggest thing—the next best thing.

Opening your eyes from where they’ve rolled shut, you see the single cupcake on the counter—chocolate, with blue frosting. Furrowing your brow, you glance toward the calendar and curse—Kara’s birthday. Your alarm had been going off all throughout the meeting—reminding you of the dinner reservation’s you’d made at Mihai’s, and you’d shut it off without looking each time. Burying your face in your hands, and rubbing hard, you feel like an asshole—which is true a fair amount of the time, but never to Kara—never _knowingly_ at least. Swiping the lock open on your mobile, you go to your messages—you’d talked to Kara earlier, and you look to see if you missed something.

 **Supergirl** : Hey, _zrhueiao_. Working hard?

 **Cat** : Trying too, but the overwhelming presence of stupidity makes it hard.

 **Supergir** l: :)

 **Supergirl** : Cartericous Maximus misses his mommy.

 **Cat** : I miss him too; did he take his nap?

 **Supergirl** : I’m such a good mama, he took _two_ naps.

 **Cat** : Somehow I think that has more to do with you, than him.

 **Supergirl** : I can neither confirm, nor deny, that statement.

 **Cat** : I’m a journalist, supergirl; I don’t accept those types of answers.

 **Supergirl** : :)

 **Supergirl** : When do you think you’ll be home?

 **Supergirl** : Someone other than Carter might miss you.

 **Supergirl** : Clark; I meant Clark.

 **Supergirl** : Not that I _don’t_ —I do, but Clark does to.

 **Supergirl** : By the way, Clark’s here.

 **Supergirl** : You know, in case you didn’t—get that.

 **Supergirl** : I’m going to stop—you haven’t stopped me.

You remember how the quick fire texts had made you smile—you could imagine Kara on the other end, clarifying something that didn’t warrant clarification. Fingers blurring over the touch keyboard too quick to follow, face drawn into concentration. That pulsing warmth in your chest had grown, seeping into your blood and giving you the second wind you’d needed to finish the schedules for the next three shows. You remember how you’d written back slowly—trying to imagine that you were leaving now, and that you were heading home. But—no one builds an empire by not putting in the time. It had made you frown, tugging your smile away and stashing it back inside your heart where it belonged.

You’d make it up to them, you always did—a trip to the zoo, a weekend long marathon of the Harry Potter movies that Clark said he was too old for.

 **Cat** : Not for a while; I have to do damage control for all the incompetence I seem to employ.

Kara hadn’t responded right away—you figured because she was otherwise occupied, but _now_ you feel the proper fool.

 **Supergirl** : Alright—don’t work too hard; you need to take care of yourself.

 _God_ , Kara was going to do irreparable damage to your reputation if she kept making you smile. No one would scramble out of your way at this rate, if they kept seeing you smile to yourself, whenever you looked at your mobile.

 **Cat** : That’s what I have you for. I’ll see you when I get home?

 _This_ response was immediate.

 **Supergirl** : Absolutely.

Looking at the exchange—you want to kick yourself—you want to go back in time and fix this. You don’t want to be _that_ person—the one who misses birthdays, and anniversaries, and holidays. You don’t want to be your mother—self-possessed with the idea of greatness. Whittling down everything that didn’t fit comfortably on the shelf in her office. You don’t even have to ask the reasons why Kara wasn’t reminding you—you know she’ll tell you it’s alright, that she understands, and that it’s _no big deal_. She'll tell you that Krypton had a different calendar, and even though she'd done the math, it was a cold comfort; plotting the orbit of a dead planet, counting its seconds. Converting them, as if that would bring them back to life.

Putting your bottle of water on the counter, you walk across the kitchen and through the doorway leading to the living room—the whole room is illuminated by the projector, awash with primary colors, but none of that holds your attention. The scene on the couch makes your heart clench.

Clark is sitting upright on one edge of the couch, hand dangling over the arm rest, head thrown back as he snores quietly. He looks like a walking _University of Metropolis_ bulletin board—navy blue sweatpants with the logo on the hip, and a matching sweatshirt with the college name emblazoned across the front—feet thrown up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. Kara takes up the rest of the couch—head sitting uncomfortably against the farthest arm rest, an arm thrown over it to dangle limply beside the couch. She’s wearing her _Spectre_ getup—askew and ruffled from sleeping bunched up on the couch; one foot sitting in Clark’s lap, the other balanced precariously on his shoulder, against his face—he definitely won’t like that when he wakes up.

And on Kara’s chest—is a slumbering toddler. Carter’s head is tucked up under the Kryptonian’s chin, his body laying completely on top of her, fingers curled into her half-unzipped jacket, wearing the New England Patriot’s jersey Kara had gotten him for Christmas—mainly because she knows you hate them, and that just delights her. They look perfect together—peaceful, like they had nothing in the world to worry about. That might be true for Carter—and you’ll make sure it stays true for as long as possible—but you cherish these moments for Kara. When she isn’t lung deep in the weight of her responsibility—when she doesn’t take it upon herself to save humanity, because they can’t save themselves half the time.

Kneeling down beside the couch, as quietly as possible, you smooth your thumb between her pale brows, trying to coax away the little furrow that lived there—the only sign that her dreams may not be as peaceful as she was. Kara grumbles, huffing through her nose, and tucking it into Carter’s dark hair—never one easily woken up. You’d seen her alarm regiment—a different song every five minutes. Cupping her cheek, you sooth your thumb below her eye until she’s blinking blearily up at you—blue eyes hazy, and still lightyears away, but she smiles widely; dopey and content.

“Mm,” she hums, turning into your palm now, and closing her eyes again, “—missed you.”

Her eyes close again, and she’s holding Carter closer—the boy seems determined to snuggle as close as possible. You see where her mobile has slid off her stomach and tumbled below the coffee table; the screen blank—the Bluetooth in her ear silent. You like these days; the quiet ones that you have everyone you love here. Safe and warm. Pushing golden curls behind her ear, you smile down at her while settling on your knees beside the couch.

“Happy birthday, beautiful.”

She blinks up at you, like she doesn’t understand, before smiling, “D’ja eat your cupcake?” You see soot on her cheek from the fire she’d stopped earlier—a little singe at her shoulder—you’d watched the whole thing on the screens behind your desk, chewing on your lip the whole while. You know she’s perfectly capable—that this is almost nothing—but it hadn’t stopped you from worrying. You swallow down the urge you have every time—to tell her National City can save itself, that she doesn’t owe them anything—but you don’t want to have _that_ argument again. Especially not tonight.

“Not yet,” smoothing a hand over her crown, you tell her to _scooch_ , and when she shuffles down on the couch so that you can sit, with her head settled comfortably in your lap. Kara’s turned toward you so that she’s pressed against your stomach, and you can only imagine that the buttons of your shirt are jabbing into her, but she doesn’t seem to care. “I’m sorry,” as if it could be said quietly enough, as if that could take it back. “The days got away from me—but that’s—it’s not an excuse.” You’re combing fingers through her hair, scratching behind her ear so that she hums deep in her chest. Carter coos in his sleep, and one of his little hands uncurls from Kara’s jacket to slap lightly at her chin—obviously not pleased with the movement. Kara catching his fingers in a kiss, and they go limp against her cheek—the boy obviously asleep again.

“I forgive you,” is all she says, eyes closed, settling into your lap.

Sometimes you wished she wouldn’t—that she would get angry, push you, something, _anything_ —but she sees the best in you, and as much as you want reality to fold in and exist, you don’t want to give that up. Don’t want to take any of the light out of her eyes when she looks at you, because sometimes that’s all that gets you through the day. She must feel some kind of tension in your body, because blue eyes are suddenly open, and awake. She watches you quietly, the blue slash of color from the projector slipping across her cheeks and into her eyes. She isn’t saying anything—and then you hear the beep from the digital clock in the kitchen—signaling midnight.

“See, _zrhueiao_?” She whispers, lifting a hand to ghost fingers down your cheek and coming to rest on your collarbone. “You got home just in time. You didn’t miss it.”

“How about breakfast? It’s not dinner at Mihai’s, but…” You trail off, because she’s looking at you with that _look_ on her face. Soft at the eyes, and pursed at the lips; like she’s trying not to smile.

“Me, you, and the boys?”

“Absolutely,” you agree, because you can’t think of anything you’d want more—you make a mental note to yourself to get an assistant. Someone who could follow you around and save you from yourself—because apparently you can’t be trusted to keep priorities in line on your own. The shuffling of fabric has you looking over and seeing Clark blink away the last of sleep. He watches you with a quiet appraisal—some of the condemnation you deserve sitting there. You know you’d disappointed him—you’ve been doing that more now—but he doesn’t say anything, his lips just press together while glancing down at Kara—who’s already closed her eyes again, leaning into the hand you have tangled in her hair.

 _I’m sorry_ , you mouth.

He frowns, pulling his cousin’s foot from where it is shoved into his face, placing it beside her other one and holding them in his lap. He just says, “You’re always sorry,” very quietly, and you can hardly hear him, before he’s turning back to the screen. Reaching across, you touch his wrist, and even though he doesn’t look at you—you know you have his attention.

“I’ll do better,” you swear, your heart clenching, because you don’t want to ruin this— _more_ , some voice inside whispers—because you were too focused on your career. “I promise, Clark.” That makes him look at you, because you very rarely call him by his name— _very_ rarely—and he weighs your sincerity. And you know— _really_ know—that he’ll protect Kara with everything he has. He’s older now—tall and broad—and he hugs his blonde cousin like she’s delicate, and not unbreakable.

The set of his jaw says _you’d better_ , but he just nods—rubbing Kara’s feet absently.


	15. snap shot 15. ( 6, 21, 31, 35 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK)**. _You'd been a junior in high school when your teacher had chosen you to read Hamlet's soliloquy—and you’d slouched to the front of the class, brittle paged book in hand, and you’d gone through the whole thing. She’d commented on how you’d been a little lackluster about it—but you’d never been much of a Shakespeare fan. To be, or not to be—it didn’t seem like much of a question to you. When you’d gotten home that night, your cousin had listened and shrugged, that smile on her face, “Dying’s easy, living is hard; I think that’s what he’s trying to say.” You don’t think so, but you’d nodded and asked what was for dinner._

* * *

You’d been packing up your apartment when you found it; behind the living room couch, where it had probably been tossed when you’d been carrying in boxes. You’d lost a lot of things during the move, though most of them didn’t cross your mind ever again—this certainly hadn’t. It’d been years since you’d seen it last, the proof was how the cover creaked when you opened it. The kind o thing that makes you reevaluate memories—like your past self couldn’t help being biased about what was going on around them, and it was your _present_ self’s job to fix that. To sift through the events and really find the truth that had been lurking underneath.

You’d been doing that a lot the last two months—the school semester winding down, and the classes becoming glorified study sessions. You’d sit in the back of the room, and tap your fingers, lost in thoughts that you’d assumed you’d forgotten over the years. The stupid things that you don’t write about in birthday cards, or letters—the simple small things that mean almost nothing at the time, but build, and build, and _build_ years later, making the tower almost too tall to climb on your own. You’d find a way, you always did—Kara said it was the _Grant_ in you—but for now, you just wanted to sit in the quiet and ponder that tilting tower of gratitude that will exist forever more.

The spring was gracefully beginning to bow to summer, and you think this might be one of the few cool days left—the sun bright and high, the sky crisp and blue, but the breeze was all west coast. You could smell salt from the ocean, thick in your nostrils whenever you pulled too much air in. Pulled it too deep. A lot of other people were walking past you on the paths, huddled together—shoulder to shoulder—no one, but you, was alone. You’d considered stopping by Cat’s office to retrieve her—but from the text conversations you’d gotten the last few days, she was buried under enough work to kill a lesser human. Carter was with his father for the weekend—a pompous man who seemed to buckle under the expectations of what someone should do with their child. You wonder how long Cat will tolerate it before the man is read the riot act—you know Kara’d been the one whispering her off the edge of confrontation in the past—but, things change.

It felt good to get away from the city center—away from the cement and chrome, away from the mad rush of people and the sights and sounds of what living in National City means. The construction going on downtown—easily seen outside CatCo’s eastern windows—was chaos, and had been for the better part of a year—sifting through the demolished properties and trying to salvage what they could from the mess. The city board proclaimed that it would be ready for new buildings by the end of the following year—Cat’d been muttering about leaking funds and tax breaks during dinner two months ago, and you’d only been able to shrug, because you didn’t know anything about it. She’d promptly called her assistant—some meek little college graduate that shakes softly twenty-four hours a day—you don’t think that’s healthy.

Looking up at the sun, you let the warmth and heat fill you—it chases like dragons down your spine and into your blood, basking quietly in the afternoon light. You've always been an afternoon guy. It’d been raining for three weeks before today—cloudy and dark, too much winter for April—you’d been feeling more sluggish, knowing it was the lack of sun, but it’d made you feel so damned _human_ that you hadn’t minded. It made you slog through the rain like every other college student, hunched under a hood, eyes on the ground. It made you feel _normal_ , and that was the greatest gift of all.

When you’d woken up this morning—face on your open textbook, the apartment too quiet, you’d felt the sun slipping in through the open window and it had coaxed you outside. You’d thrown on whatever clothes you could find easily—a shirt off the back of a chair, and pants hat had a slight syrup stain from pancake night—and you’d been into the city. Dodging between wary people, and their skittish eyes. You see so much now, things you’d never noticed until last year—things you’d probably tried so hard not to notice, because you’d wanted to be _normal_. Whatever that meant.

You don’t realize you’ve wandered as far as you have until you’re in the right spot—at the top of the hill, facing the city—so you sling your back off your shoulder, and sit with your back against the stone. The grass is thick and green, and smells like it had just gotten cut—flower poking up all over the place, finally answering the call of spring. It’s beautiful, and you find yourself here at least once a month—when you can slip out of Metropolis unnoticed, and back home—you can only think of how Kara’s face had looked the first time she’d called National City _home_. So scared, and guilty, and unsure—but Cat had wrapped small arms around your cousin and tucked her blonde crown under Kara’s chin— _home_ had never been a place. It was people.

Your pilfered knapsack sat between your knees, the top loop caught in your finger while you just looked up at the sky—bright, and happy, and clear. It pulled a smile from somewhere in you, because you’d never known why the sunlight lived inside you like campfire—how it warmed and invigorated you, at least, not until you were fourteen and your cousin had explained why it was so. That you are an alien from another planet, a thousand and a half light years away—a planet that had died. Relics of that planet seemed to show up with surprising frequency, but Kara had never balked—she’d gritted her teeth and stepped forward. National City’s hero—the _Spectre_ —and done her best to save this little slice of the universe she’d managed to keep for herself.

Unzipping the bag, you root around until you find it—plucking it free of the papers and textbooks from class, and settling it in your lap. Careful with the edges—you’d almost cried when you’d been a little too rough and nearly tore a page out—you crack it open, and search for where you’d left off. You’d been near the end, and you read slowly now because you don’t want to finish—but everything ends, you suppose. As much as you’d like something else to be true. It was the heartbreaking part of the book—it had never really seemed as such when you were young---but it folds into you like the edge of a kryptonite blade, somewhere thick and painful in your chest. Not enough to kill, but enough to pulse with pain—to melt into the edges of your alien heart.

Breathing slowly through your nose, you begin—reading out loud quietly in the afternoon.     

> Wendy looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
> 
> “Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch enemy.
> 
> “Don’t you remember?” She asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved all our lives?”
> 
> “I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.
> 
> When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her, he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”
> 
> “Oh Peter,” Wendy said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.
> 
> Wendy expect he was right, for fairies don’t live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a while to them. Wendy was pained to find that the past year was but a yesterday to Peter—it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her—but, Peter was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring in the little house on the tree tops.
> 
> Next year, he did not come for her.

Breathing through your nose, and shuffling slightly, you glance up from your worn out book at the people wandering together across the open grounds—there’s many of them, but you suppose it is the proper day for such a thing. A lot of people end up here in the middle of April—weather permitting—but, you’ve been here in the darkest, hardest storms, and seem the same faces drawn tight and sad, not caring about the world around them—because their individual worlds had crumbled. Letting your head thump backwards, you pull your mobile from your pocket, and settle it in the crease of the open book. You have a notification for a few messages—most from friends who wanted to hang out this weekend—but you focus on one smack dap in the middle.

From Cat.

It was nothing long winded, nothing particularly involved, but it clenched something fierce around your heart. You could imagine her—sitting in front of her media empire, clicking away at her mobile, sending you a message in the middle of a board meeting—one she couldn’t reschedule, because she’d kept that part of her removed from work. The smiles, and the hardships—Cat Grant, Queen of All Media—did not flounder for anything. Not even for anniversaries—maybe _especially_ for anniversaries. Clicking on her name, the message is only three words.

 **C. Grant** : Are you home?

It is even, and simple—but you bite your lip and clench your jaw. You’d gone through your mobile with your most recent upgrade and made your contact list more _adult_ ; putting everyone in by their last name, with their e-mails attached. But it looks _wrong_. So _wrong_. Because Cat has always been _Wendy_ in your address book, just as Kara had always been _Peter Pan_. But not any longer—now, they’re all grown. You’d sprinted out of Neverland, in a hurry to grow up, and they’d chased after you—mindless of themselves, and what would become of them in this real world. But, they couldn’t very well abandon their lost boy, could they?

 **C. Callaghan** : I am. I was going to pick up Carter from school; if that’s alright?

 **C. Grant** : You know you don’t have to ask; your brother misses you.

 **C. Grant** : I miss you.

Your heart clenches—harder, fiercer—and you wonder if this is what a heart attack feels like. A throbbing pain that flits out to your finger tips and shoots back up your bones and into your lungs. Pinching, and squeezing, until oxygen means nothing, and air is just an illusion. Exhaling loudly, you look across the open grounds toward National City—seeing the tower cranes from the construction zone slipping into the skyline of the other buildings. If you squint, and lower your glasses, you can see CatCo—tall, and impressive, a beacon of light in the chrome of mid-town.

 **C. Callaghan** : I miss you both too. I’ll see you later.

Shuffling through the other messages from friends, you ward off invites to end of the year parties, and plans for road trips. They all mean well, and you don’t fault them their enthusiasm for life, but you don’t have the energy to smile for them. Not right now—not today. Letting your mobile rest on your thigh, you stretch your legs out in front of you, crossed at the ankle, and you try to remember how Kara used to read this—she had voices for all the characters. Distinct and easily distinguished—you’d never been too good at reading out loud, but Carter never seemed to mind—you feel he isn’t as picky as you used to be when you were his age.     

> Peter came the next spring; and the strange thing was that he never knew he had missed a year.
> 
> That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again, Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she kept her toys. Wendy had grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.
> 
> All the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worthwhile saying anything more about them. You may see the twins, and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella. Michael is an engine driver—a train engineer—and slightly married a lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door? That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who doesn’t know any story to tell his children, was once John.
> 
> Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. It is strange to think that Peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns.

You don’t realize your voice has gotten heavy and thick with tears until they splash onto the open book in your lap—rolling down the worn pages to sit in the binding. You panic and invert it, making the water drip away so that you can dry the words with your sleeve pulled over your palm—they smudge. You hiccup, shoulders shaking, and you stare at the streak of black across the page—wet and ruined. You’re hoarsely whispering _no, no, no, no_ , but the damage is done, and your heart has shattered in two.

No, not two. A million pieces. A billion. A trillion.

As many pieces as there are stars in the sky.

You’re trying to calm down—trying to suck in air through your nose, and force it out through your mouth—but it’s like you’ve forgotten how to breath, how to exist. The book tumbles off your lap, _Peter Pan and Wendy_ looking at you from the grass as you grab your mobile—slapping in your lock code, and finding the message right in the middle. It still has a blue dot saying you never opened it—that is it unread—and the date is right—April 23 rd—but, the year is wrong. The year has been wrong for too long—the message is from two years ago. The last message sent from a mobile that you know is tucked away in Cat’s bedside table—always charged, waiting for its owner who will never come back.

 **K. Callaghan** : I’ll see you this weekend, bud. I love you.

Kara had sent you that message while you’d been studying—your professor was a hard ass, and you were _positive_ you were going to fail—so you hadn’t answered. You told yourself you’d text her back in the morning, that you’d tell her you love her in the morning—but then everything had fallen apart. National City was besieged by a creature that seemed to live only for destruction—tearing through buildings, and people, shrugging off anything that had been thrown at it. Swallowing missiles like a hungry child, it had grown and sneered—and then your cousin had shown up. Just in time to catch a bone spired fist—to match the creature punch for punch; and throw themselves into the sky.

Looking at the message, you pretend like you’ll always see her the following weekend—like you’ve just somehow missed her the last few, but it’s getting late, and you’re getting tired.

Tired of pretending that Kara is coming back.

National City had erected a massive statue to _the Spectre_ in their square, and you know Cat can see it from her window—can see the people gathering to thank the hero, to mourn those lost. You’ve never gone, never wanted to see the caricature of your cousin expressed so simply—she wasn’t _just_ the _Spectre_ , she was more than that. She was a person who had smiled at you before wrapping her arms around the creature and rocketed off into the sky—both of them glowing green with Kryptonite, their bodies getting smaller and smaller, until they seemed to be swallowed by the stars. You should have been able to follow them for longer—but it was like they simply ceased to exist. You swear you hear her say your name—say Cat and Carter’s name—before she vanished, but you can hardly remember. You’d been weak with Kryptonite—that Kara herself had locked around your wrist to keep you from the fight—and your ears had been ringing like a church bell.

When Cat had produced the key from her shaking fist, you’d looked at her betrayed—she’d been able to unlock it, been able to let you help, and she’d done nothing—but the look in her eyes had been all Kara. Soft, and broken, and sad—and you knew she’d made a promise. That Kara had held her close, and made her promise to do this for her. And even if it had taken you months to forgive her—you understand.

You read the message over, and over, and over, until your breathing has slowed—until your heart was steady and calm—no, calmer, never calm—and you stand up. _Peter Pan and Wendy_ goes back into your knapsack, beside the guinea pig stuffed animal you’d had forever, and your term paper for class. Looking at the stone you’d been sitting against, it’s simple, and sedate, and nothing you would have figured Cat Grant would decide on—but it is absolutely Kara. The grave marker is one amongst thousands in the cemetery outside National City; at the top of the hill overlooking the man made sky line of buildings. No trees, no shade—always in the sunlight, from the moment the sun slips over the horizon, until the moment it goes to sleep.

**KARA A. CALLAGHAN**

You trace the letters quietly, trying to remember what her signature looked like—on failed tests, and student loans, on Christmas cards and diner receipts.

**SHE IS OUR EVERYTHING.**

Is, not was.

No dates—because hope is a brittle thing, that seems unable to shatter.

Sometimes you wish it would, so you can move on.


	16. snap shot 16. ( 8, 23, 31, 37 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**.  _Peter Pan had the right idea. Keep the lost boys in Neverland so that they never would grow up—never go out on their own, and live their own lives. Where Clark was going, you couldn’t follow—because he wanted to do it on his own. Out of your shadow, without your fingerprints on his achievements—you could understand that. No, you do understand—but that doesn’t mean you like it._

* * *

“You’re an idiot,” you begin the conversation, glancing up for only a moment to make sure your office doors are closed. Not a single set of eyes strays your way—like they’re afraid that if they’re caught, they’ll be forced to run some inhuman gauntlet. you like the fear, its better than an energy drink to keep you going. Satisfied that your privacy is assured, you go back to your conversation—momentarily forgetting where you were, so you start again. “You’re an idiot.”

A long suffering sigh, “So you said already,” he grouses, and you can hear the bustle from his end of the conversation—the loud pandemonium of a news office. You remember what the Daily Planet had been like—barely organized chaos. Thesaurus loving blood hounds tripping over each other for any story with a hint of spice at its edges. You’d been the best there—inarguably, in your opinion—and now, you play golf with Perry White four times a year. He wins, because you don’t know how to play golf—regardless of how many times you actually _have_ played it.

“I thought it warranted repeating,” you glibly reply, twirling a pair of glasses between your fingertips while you recline in your desk chair. You can see a litany of freshly constructed buildings outside your window—where destruction had been before. National City was finally back on its feet—fully and absolutely.

“Did you call for any reason _other_ than telling me I’m an idiot?”

It’s hard to talk to someone when it feels like you’re talking to yourself—Clark has definitely gotten some undesirable traits from you. Undesirable on _him_ —on _you_ they’re nothing, but wonderful. But sometimes you do wish he’d taken after Kara more—oh, he has her golden heart and easy smile—but those sharp edges are all yours.

You can think about her now without crumbling into tears—you can picture her dopey smile and brilliant eyes without knocking back half a bottle of expensive scotch to forget her. You don’t know if that’s an improvement—living so comfortably with a ghost that you no longer flinch.

“I also called to tell you that despite how much of a blowhard fool you are, I love you.” God, he’s such an _idiot_ , and you wish you had seen this coming—but you thought he was _smarter_ than this, more careful.

“I love you too,” you hear the smile in his voice, and you frown because it makes you feel light and dopey. This grown man who was still your little heathen. The toddler who refused to dance unless he was balanced on your toes—you’d sashay across the kitchen and he’d giggle up a storm. Now he’s a hot shot journalist—a center piece in Perry’s roster, second only to—

“But _Lois Lane_?” You drawl, exasperated, your voice tipping up into that shrill pitch that you pretend doesn’t make you sound like your mother. “What, did she finish her article about the puppy parade early, and had some time to kill?”

He sighs, not saying anything—still not saying anything—and after an eternity of silence (maybe forty five seconds) you concede, huffing while rubbing your temple, “Alright, alright—I’m sorry.”

Clark laughs, “You used to take longer,”

“I’m getting older, I don’t have time to waste placating your delicate china doll feelings; I might as well get it over with so that I can go back to managing my impressive, and decorated, media empire.”

A pause.

“You’re upset I didn’t ask you,” he deduces, and you scoff—loudly, so he knows how wrong he is.

But he isn’t wrong—not in the slightest—leaning back in your chair, you look at the Daily Planet newspaper your assistant had brought in at the beginning of the morning. You like to see what sub-par reporting they’re doing over in Metropolis, but it had been a rather big surprise to see Clark splashed across the front page—in full color, flying off into the quite literal sunset. The name James Olsen written small below it, but the predominate name on the article is Lois Lane—the consummate thorn in your patent black leather Manolo’s. It’s a coming out piece about the _man of steel_ , last son of Krypton— _Superman_. You’d listened to how your assistant has twittered about the article—she’d read it on the elevator ride up—and wasn’t it just _amazing_ that someone like this existed? You’d stared—waited—and she’d deposited the paper without another comment and left your office.

“I’m _upset_ , that you’re not being more careful,” was it too early to start drinking? No, you decide, there’s no such thing as _too early_. Leaning your mobile between your chin and your shoulder, you walk over to the bar and open the decanter, pouring much more than two fingers worth, you carry it back over to your desk with a coaster—you’re not a savage. “Just because she looks cute in a skirt, and bats her eyelashes, doesn’t mean you should start telling her the gristly details of your eviscerated race, and doomed planet.”

Clark’s never had the same visceral connection with the tragedy that Kara did—he grew up in National City, he had a family that supported him, he didn’t even know about his people until he was fourteen—and by then he could only connect with them on the most fundamental of levels. You never had to search the silence for what to say, how to approach the subject—he was Kryptonian, it was in his very blood, but he was American—he was homegrown National City.

“Cat,” he hedges, the end of your name hooking like it should be a question, but you clear your throat like you’re waiting. “Can you give me a little more credit than that?”

“No,” you deadpan, “I will give you just as much credit as you deserve. Which is maybe a _skosh_ above absolutely none.” Flattening the paper out on your desk, you look at the picture—you can make out the atrocious outfit he’d taken to wearing. “Heathen, at the very least, do you have to look like a color wheel has vomited on you?” The sigil on his chest makes your own heart clench—because you feel the burn of metal against your sternum where your own symbol of the House of El rests. Kara had given it to you over a decade ago, when she’d explained what it was.

 _You’re as much a part of my family as anyone back on Krypton,_ she’d said, _I couldn’t have done this without you._

Fingering the necklace, hidden now that Clark has gone public with the symbol, you drink some of the scotch you’d gotten yourself. It isn’t even noon yet, but you can already feel the pulsing headache drumming away in your temples.

“Petty isn’t a good look for you,” you can imagine him leaning back in his chair—button-down shirt, and one of the ten ties you’d forced him to buy after college.

“I beg to differ,” you insist, “Petty looks just as good on me as everything else.”

After Kara had died—disappeared, vanished, _died_ —it was like you’d become a single parent of two boys—one in grammar school, and one graduating college. Carter would ask about Kara every day, and Clark never would—you’d ping pong back and forth between the two until Carter no longer asked, and Clark brought her up every other conversation. Your heart is broken—shattered, really—and you’d stopped trying to repair the damage. What was the point? There was nothing strong enough to keep the pieces together—no Kryptonian hands to keep you whole.

“It was—it’s from home,” he settles, and you wonder who’s leaning over his cubical wall and eavesdropping on his conversation. But you understand—from _home_. It was probably from that ice hell that Kara had taken you to once—you are not a cold weather person—you’d snooped around as much as you were able, she hadn’t stopped you, but you don’t remember blue spandex anywhere in the place. “To remember her.”

Fuck. You almost curse out loud, but you stop yourself, because you’re a damn adult—and you don’t curse indiscriminately to yourself. You curse at _other_ people, and traffic, and the weather, and inanimate objects—but not yourself. Closing your eyes, and pressing your fingers into the sockets, like you could chase away the ache in you pressed hard enough. Go figure, thirty years later it still doesn’t work.

“I suppose it could find itself on the same horrendous level of fashion choices that she made,” you concede, hiding your aching heart behind vitriol and sarcasm, “Though if you’d really wanted to remember her, it would have been in a garish shade of pastel.”

He snorts, laughing, and it sounds a little wet, and you feel like an ass for upsetting him, even if he’ll never admit it. “She did like pastel a little too much, didn’t she?”

Snorting, you’re laughing now too, “Far too much; do you remember that—I don’t even have a proper word for it—that _frock_?”

“The one that made her look like Laura from Little House on the Prairie?”

“Yes! That’s the one.” You see a few eyes lifting to look at you slightly, like you were some grand animal on display, but you’re looking down at your desk, smiling because that’s what Clark makes you do. Both your boys make you smile.

You’re both just sitting in amiable silence—remembering—and you can picture Kara perfectly. You don’t know where she’d gotten the dress, but it was garish—a level of ugly that you had difficulty comprehending at the young age of twenty six. She’d smoothed hands down the front of her dress, blinking at you from behind thick frames, and you’d only been able to think one thing— _beautiful_. She could have been dressed in a burlap sack, and you would have been enamored; she had some unflinching grip on your heart, and nothing would have been able to change that. Not even her abandon with the color wheel when shopping.

 _Do you like it?_ She’d asked quietly, blinking bright blue eyes at you—you swore to the heaven’s she had the tail of a comet glittering in her eyes.

You’d found yourself saying, _I love it_ , with more sincerity than you felt, but _God_ how she smiled. She’d wrapped her arms around your neck, and pulled you close—her skin hot through both layers of clothes, her nose tucked into your hair, and your lungs had been filled with her. Sunlight, stardust and cedar—you can still remember it so vividly. Like she’s just waiting on the other side of your closed lids.

But she’s not.

It’s been four years, and your limping heart has hardened at the edges.

“Clark,” you say, shattering the quiet with a warbling plea, “Be careful?” You want to say _don’t do this_ , to forbid it and demand he stop; but he won’t. _That’s_ what he’d inherited from Kara; a selfless streak a mile wide, and it had cost her. She’d sacrificed herself for the planet, and on your darkest nights, it doesn’t seem like a fair trade.

“I will,” he promises, “Just petty crime, nothing major.”

What did they say about famous last words?


	17. snap shot 17. ( 0, 15, 27, 29 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).**   _It's strange how you think someone fills your whole heart—and then someone else tumbles into your life, and you realize they’ve always been there too, you just hadn’t realized. It happens over, and over, and over, and you wonder when your heart will be full. When there will be no more room to carry around the people you love. Though—you’ve been carrying a dead planet around in your heart for a decade, you suppose you have a little room left yet._

* * *

He’s so _small_. Impossibly so. He fits into the crook of your elbow, and you can’t even feel the weight of him—only the warmth of him. Hotter than the average human, like it lived below his skin. Ghosting fingertips across his forehead, you can’t stop the worry that lives inside you now. You’d raised Clark—but he was like you, unbreakable—you didn’t have to worry about how easily his skin could bruise, or how simply his bones could break. And this was a _newborn_. There was nothing solid to him, nothing firm—just soft pliant chub, and shivering little fingers.

All the names that had been thrown out over the last eight months have left your mind; fluttering away on the summer breeze you hear galling outside, shaking the storm windows of the fifth floor maternity room in place. The weather was supposed to be clear all week, so the storm had been a surprise—unseasonably chilly weather howling in from the north, bringing with it the occasional flurry of snow. You can hardly believe it, but you suppose you should leave a lot of room for belief—considering you are in fact an alien from another planet.

“Hey there, littlest Grant,” you coo softly, tracing the baby’s eyebrow, smoothing fingertips through his hair. He smells like talcum powder and antiseptic, but you couldn’t find it in you to flinch at the clinical smell. Because he also smells like Cat—not her shampoo, or her perfume. The scent that exists under all of that; on her skin, and in her pores. You’d tried a few times to describe it—but it was impossible. Warm, and crisp, and soothing—it was more a feeling than anything. And this newborn had it—seamlessly falling into a category of people that meant the world to you. Granted, he’d been there for almost six months, but the affirmation felt good.

A flailing fist caught your pinky, and held it in a firm grip—tight enough that you could almost feel it, and it made you smile. “You’re gonna be a fighter, aren’t you?” You sooth, pressing your nose against the soft crown of his head, watching the full head of wisps flutter as you breathe out. “Just like your mommy.” He snuffs, turning into the crook of your arm, and your face almost hurts with how wide you’re grinning—you don’t think you’ve stopped smiling since the nurses and doctors left, since the panic and chaos was over. And it was just you, Cat—and this beautiful boy.

“That’s a good thing, _aonah_. You’ll grow up big, and strong,” wiggling your finger only makes him hold tighter, “Well, maybe not _too_ big; have you seen your mommy? She is the littlest human I’ve ever seen. Except you.” You swear he smiles—he does something—and it makes your heart flutter, because you’ve never loved something as much as you love this boy right now. He’s utterly defenseless, vulnerable and small, and you want to protect him with everything you have. To make this planet the best there has ever been in any of the galaxies.

“Who’re you calling little?” The voice startles you, and you whirl around, to blink owlishly at Cat—she’s still lying flat on her back, and you can’t see her face behind the mount of blankets that you’d gotten her. Even the hint of a shiver had sent you scurrying down the hall to find more warmed blankets. Walking up alongside the bed, you push enough of the blankets down to make out her face. Eyes still firmly closed, lips trying their hardest to frown—but she can’t manage it for even a moment. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the dip from your weight must convince her to wake up fully, because you’re greeted by warm green eyes. Glittering and bright, they possess you like nothing has ever been able to touch.

“No one, _zrhueiao_.” She doesn’t look convinced, not in the least, but that doesn’t seem to matter because her hand lifts to smooth through the baby’s dark curls. Trailing down his forehead, and to the tip of his nose, which makes his whole face bunch up, like he’s about to sneeze. “Do you want him?” It was one thing to hold him while Cat was asleep—when you could almost _sense_  his need for comfort, his little fists balling tight and shaking—but now that she’s awake, you don’t want to step over the line.

Ever since she’d showed up at your apartment with tears in her eyes, you hadn’t known where you fit into this situation—you’d played it by ear—flowing around Cat like a nervous storm, cracking and static. You’d fallen into something of a routine, and nothing was ever mentioned about it—you’d always take care of her, until this sun collapsed, and the oceans ran dry. But you’d been too nervous to ask for clarification—for _what this meant,_ because things have been different since she’d come back from the war zone. Not horribly different, but enough so that you were redefining edges.

She still trailed her hands up your arms, and through your hair—but she doesn’t end it with a kiss. She still fits into your side, and falls asleep on your shoulder—but half the time now, she’s gone when you wake up. You’re just as guilty—the comforting and familiar touches you have gotten so used to, you can’t live without now. But she doesn’t balk—doesn’t step away. You live in some place too intimate for friends, but neither of you are willing to mention it.

“No,” she says finally, and you’re shaken from your thoughts, “He looks perfect right where he is.” _Rao_. She breaks your heart with her eyes, with her _words_ , everything about her knots you up inside, but it is a pain that you’ll accept a thousand times over, because if it means Cat Grant will look at you even _once_ like she is right now. It is worth it. “What does it mean?” She’s shifting, and you turn so that you can guide her into a half recline, sliding in beside her so that she can lean on your arm, hand limp on your thigh.

“What?” You murmur without really thinking about it, too busy making soothing sounds to the boy who looks like he might start crying without any prompting.

“Ah-O- _nah_.” She drawls, taking extra time on each syllable, and you may look at her a little too quickly, because her eyes inadvertently cross and she shakes her head. Lips pursing, and she’s snared you, and she knows it. “Well?” _Grant Brow_ raised.

“ _Aonah_ ,” you repeat, listening to her say it again—and then again, trying to duplicate the way the sounds flit and curl. There is no break in the word, no syllables, just a single changing sound—you’d never be able to properly explain it, because so much of it in folded into your cells. In the extra chamber in your lungs, and the quick trilling cord in your throat. The unseen differences between humans and Kryptonians. You hear Kryptonese so infrequently that it tightens your chest to hear her speak it. Especially this word. You want her to say this every day, until the day you die. “It’s Kryptonian for—you see—what it means is—,”

You’re stuttering like an idiot, floundering for something to grasp onto, and she just settles her small palm on your collarbone. You feel how her fingers press hard, making sure you know she’s there. “Kara,” _Rao_ , how she says your name, “What does it mean?” She knows, it is in the tilt of her chin, the half-squint of her eyes.

“Son,” you supply, the word escaping without your consideration, “It means son.”

“ _Aonah_ ,” she doesn’t trip over it this time, exhaling the word like it’s her native tongue, and your stomach burn for the sound of it—how it snares in the teeth of her smile, and off the petals of her lips. “How do you say mother?”

“ _Ieiu_ ,” you’re a moth drifting closer to a flame—your wings catching the flickers of fire flitting off into the dark. There’s no hope for you anymore—no salvation, because you’ve already found yours—barely five feet tall, with a crown of gold. You listen to her deconstruct the word, mull over the feeling of it before she smiles at you. Eyes bristling with delight, even as their lined in exhaustion. You see how her lids droop, how the fatigue is pulling her back under.

“Carter,” the name startles you, because you could only think of him as the _littlest Grant_ , but you like Carter—how it feels and sits in your chest. “Meet your _ieiu_ ; she’s rather silly,” you hear the words, but the way her fingers trip over your collarbone and around your neck has you lulled— _you_ , she was calling _you_ his mother—the rush of blood in your ears, the drop in your stomach that should surely make you dizzy. “But she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

Cat kisses Carter’s forehead, like she hasn’t just shattered your world—and rebuilt it into something bigger, and more beautiful. She lays back down, shifting every blanket until it is properly smothering her, one small hand still sticking out and touching your elbow with the lightest brush of a fingertip. “Darling,” she hushes, already half-asleep, “could you get me another blanket?” You’re up before she even finishes, tucking Carter into the small basinet that the nurses had brought in for him. Brushing sweat slicked hair away from her forehead, to press a kiss there and leave the room—knowing she’ll definitely be asleep by the time you get back.

The afternoon staff likes you a lot better than the night staff—who you had driven mad with your incessant need to worry, you’d been at the nurses station every five minutes convinced the world was ending—and a nurse happily gives you _two_ blankets to bring back to Cat. You feel ridiculous for how proud you are of your acquisition—it wasn’t like you’d gone out to hunt for food, just asked someone paid to help for blankets. You’re so lost in thought—filtering out everything except the sound of Carter and Cat’s heart, they thump away behind your ears, and you only see _her_ at the last second. Manicured claws curled over the knob to open the door and disturb _your_ humans’ peace.

Using a little burst of inhuman speed, you place your hand over her’s and stop her from opening the door, listening inside to make sure they’re both alright and asleep—you turn your attention to the unwanted party. Katherine Grant Sr. You know there’s a spelling difference, but the arrogance needed deserves the acknowledgement—you’ve always thought so. She should be beautiful—the high cheekbones, and the perfect posture, how her make up is perfectly set and even. But there’s always a chill that flickers up your spine when you come across the elder Grant. It’s how her dark blue eyes track you—toe to head, toe to head—and how she settles somewhere half an inch below your eyes. Like it isn’t the effort to look up to meet your gaze.

“Keira,” she demurs, flicking her wrist to the boy-man behind her who steps forward with an antibacterial wipe, which she promptly uses—like you’ve given her something by touching her hand. “I thought my daughter traded you in.”

Ignoring the barb, you smile slightly—you feel fake, but you want her gone, and away from Cat. “Miss Grant,” you begin, clearing your throat and folding your arms across your stomach, hugging the blankets to you. “Cat’s sleeping right now; the doctors really would like her to rest.” Placation, and you see the reptilian shift in dark blue eyes that lets you know she knows, “I’ll let her know you stopped by, and she can call you when she’s up to visitors.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” It isn’t a _sneer_ , but it is the polite version of it—like a rusty fence painted in bright red. A brilliant warning. “ _Visiting_ her.” The way she drawls the word makes it sound lewd—like the time she came home early to find you and Cat asleep in her bed; nothing had happened, but you’d had a nightmare and she’d tangled her fingers in your hair to coax you back asleep.

“I’m not, actually.” You stress the meaning, hardening your face, clenching your jaw, “Visiting would imply I leave.” Many things could be said about you—a million and one, you’re sure—but you’ll never leave Cat Grant. She’s ingrained in you, _part_ of you—the family you chose—and this woman will not sour this day. Cat always told you to leave it be, that it wasn’t worth the effort—but Cat isn’t here, and you are. “And I’m asking you, politely, to leave.”

“And you believe the hospital will side with a vagrant over the patient’s own mother?”

“I believe the hospital will side with the patient’s medical proxy and power of attorney,” you demur, matching her down with a hooded tip of your chin; you feel the anger you bottle up licking at the bottom of your feet. Far enough away from your heart that you don’t _burn_ with it, that is doesn’t _consume_ you. “On your way out, you should really look at the plaque by the elevators.”

You’d been embarrassed by it, but Cat has cooed and laughed at you the first time you’d taken her to an appointment—when she told you she was pregnant, you _may_ have overreacted—and donated a sizable amount to their effort to renovate the maternity wing. There was a blatant and ostentatious plaque with _K. Callaghan_ chipped out. Cat had made you pose next to it, laughing at your flushed face all the while. The staff seemed to know you on sight and were falling over themselves to help you.

“You’ll never have her,” Kathrine says quietly, like a secret just for the two of you, “Not in the way you want.”

“You’re wrong,” the fluttering in your chest is Carter’s heartbeat, is Cat’s breathing, even and soft, “I have everything I could ever want.”

“So,” she smiles, “the fact that she’s having another man’s child is what you want?”

The anger nips at your heels, tripping up your legs, and settling low in your stomach like a warning. You feel the burn behind your eyes, and you close them softly for a moment—pulling back the desire, tucking it back inside where it belongs.

“Your daughter is an amazing person; she’s smart, and kind, and _compassionate_ ,” opening your eyes, you don’t realize you’ve taken a step forward, until the elder Grant has taken one back, the three shaking assistants behind her falling over themselves to get out of the way. “And she’s going to be an amazing mom. And the fact that I can see that? That she wants me here? Means the world to me. Nothing you say will change that.”

She opens her mouth to say something, you see the flint in her eyes, but you hold up a hand—something Cat usually does to you when you start babbling, “I’m going to go inside, and give her the blankets she asked for—and then I’m going to hold Carter, because I can.” Smiling, and you know it isn’t friendly, “That’s your grandson’s name, by the way; Carter.” Named after the man this woman had belittled and insulted until the day he died—the man who Cat had gotten her compassion from.

“Take care of yourself, Miss Grant.” You exhale, shrugging, and like that—the anger melts away, because on the other side of this door is your _son_. And the woman you'll always love with everything you are. “It’s raining something fierce outside.”

And when you close the door in her face, she doesn’t try to open it—she curls a lip and pivots on the heel of a thousand dollar shoe. You watch through the little window in the door, and then follow her with your x-ray vision until you see her get into the back of a town car. Soaking wet and furious.

“I didn’t realize banishing demons was one of your abilities,” Cat wise cracks from the bed, and you see how she’s rolled slightly into her side, her face holding a little twinge of pain. But she looks happy—relieved, and happy. You bundle her with the two blankets you’d gotten—apologizing softly for the fact that they weren’t warm anymore—but she just covers your hand with hers and tugs you down.

She presses her lips against yours softly—chaste, and light—and her eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotion when they open, “Thank you, Kara,” she’s still close enough that her lips brush yours, but while it’s intimate—it isn’t romantic—and you’re alright with that. Because Carter snuffles a little and you’re both smiling dopey grins. Because he’s beautiful, and perfect. When Cat shifts over, and places Carter on her chest, intent on feeding him, you make a move to leave, but she catches your arm.

“Stay?” She whispers, and you see the fear in her eyes, something she’ll never mention, never acknowledge, but she doesn’t have anything to worry about. But she’ll never believe words—but actions? Those she can’t contest.

Curling an arm around her slight shoulders, you press your nose to her temple, “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”


	18. snap shot 18. ( 3, 19, 31, 33 )

**SNAP SHOT (ALEX, MAX, CLARK, CAT)**.  _You can count on one hand the number of people it takes to save the world. The queen who possesses your heart, the boy whose blood you share, the man who’s mind you match, and the woman whose soul you mirror. You’re a martian orphan, and you’ve taken these things from them without asking—you hope they don’t mind, because after tonight, you don’t think you’ll be able to give them back. You’ll take them to your grave—you hope you’ll see Krypton in your dreams after you save this borrowed home._

* * *

It has only been eight hours—only _eight_.

How can the world end in less than a day?

Standing in the quiet after all the decisions have been made is the worst feeling—of _knowing_ all the possibilities, of lining up the risk factors and deciding who was _expendable_. That was how the military functioned, risk against reward—and the price for failure was obliteration. A pretty steep buy in at this particular table. Kara stands beside you, wearing a ridiculous yellow shirt and cream pants—her face is dirty, and her nose bloody—it is the first time you’ve seen her marred. See her look so _human_. Her arms are crossed over her stomach while she stares at the configuration on the screen—you see how her eyes flicker, how her jaw clenches.

You only realize you’ve set your hand on her shoulder when she reaches up and places hers over it—squeezing lightly, but not taking her eyes off the schematics. On the monitor was a gutted nuclear warhead, the shell casing peeled away, the innards repurposed and resituated so that they can sit on the shoulders of a human. Granted—no _actual_ human would be able to hold up the weight, but Kara was no human. The scientists were clambering over themselves to work faster—to accomplish more. Kara’s foot was tapping quickly on the ground, causing the slightest of tremors.

She’d given up a lot to get to this point—standing in the middle of the department, _outed_. There wasn’t a single person who didn’t know _what_ she was, and it hurts your heart how it affects her—how she flickers her eyes to each person who passes, assessing them, and then turning away. Like she doesn’t know anyone anymore—like she’s alone.

Alone at the end of the world.

“Go over the plan again,” she says, quiet enough that you almost miss it, but you see her lips moving—blue eyes turning to you for a moment, before turning back to the screen.

“Five kilotons of radioactive material will be piped through a fractured particle rotation, and slowly broken down—when the timer on your wrist hits zero, the half-life of the waste will begin leaking.” Its suicide. Absolute suicide. But you’d standing next to an impenetrable extraterrestrial. She assured you that the particular type of radiation she would be leaking was good for her—something about how her cells absorbed it. “You will force a piece of kryptonite—”

“That is a ridiculous name,” she softly adds, turning to you with an exasperated scoff.

You continue like she didn’t interrupt, “—kryptonite into the creature, and attempt to remove it from the atmosphere.” A pause, and she waits—and waits—and only when she looks back at you, do you continue—soft, and shuddering. “And then you detonate the unstable warhead.”

She’s smiling, chewing on her lower lip, “Seems fool proof.”

This morning—at zero nine hundred, an earthquake hit the desert outside National City. No houses were damages, no building toppled—the world just kept moving. Until a creature appeared—gray, and large, and shot through with bone spikes. _Another alien_ , you’d thought, pressing your lips together and assembling your team. Fifteen in total, armed to the tooth—the beast didn’t seem to have much mind about it, tearing through whatever it could get its hands on. Houses, cars, schools—an entire mall. People strewn across the street, bloody and broken.

Your team gutted; not a single person left alive. Except you.

And then Kara showed up.

Kara to you—the _Spectre_ to everyone else.

Her clothes snapping in the wind, face hidden, she’d hit the beast head on—their punches cracked together, sound pushing out and away, the ground cracking under their feet. The department knew that the vigilante was strong—impossibly so—and that they could leap far distances. Mortals watched on as the gods fought, tossing each other into rock ledges—into the sky—through the ground. They staggered and clashed, but in the end—the Spectre was set out. Creaking bones and weeping wounds, the department retrieved her, and unmasked her—many flinching away from their liaison.

Except you—except Hank.

She told you a story—about a monster from her planet—a hundred thousand years ago. That had grown up in hell, killed, and born, and killed—until it didn’t know how to die any longer. The creature killed its creator and escaped into the black of space—there it slashed bloody lines through planets and civilizations. Until it was captured; stabbed through and buried in a cage far below the ground, where the yellow sun couldn’t touch it. Where it took a millennia to heal—in the dark, alone.

“We called it _the Ultimate_ , or—that’s what my father called it,” she exhales, face scrunching slightly, “I always figured it was a story—to scare us to staying out of trouble.” She watched the recordings over and over—how her body was clasped in large gray hands and thrown through buildings and into the ocean. The beast had gotten to National City, bringing whole sky scrapers down—they’d had warning, much of the city evacuated—and Kara had lured it back to the desert for now.

Its favorite toy—a girl who didn’t break.

“You’ll die, Kara.”

“I know,” she says, with the tip lipped expression of a martyr. It fits perfectly to the slopes of her face, the line of her brow—and you don’t want it to.

“Don’t do it.”

“I have to, Alex. I can’t let another planet die—I just can’t.” Exhaling, she turns to you, falling into the spread of your arms and pressing her forehead against your shoulder.

“There has to be another way—it was trapped before, can’t we trap it again?”

She’s shaking her head against your shoulder, and your pressing against the back of her head, hand lost in her gold curls. And then she stiffened—moving away from you with bright eyes—intelligent and fractured, flickering like she’s reading something.

“I have an idea, but I need to see a friend.”

She’s moving back, moving away, “What’s the plan?”

She laughs, “I couldn’t even _begin_ explaining it—trust me?”

There’s no question, “Always.”

* * *

The laboratory is dark when you press your palm against the scanner—the blue light tracking across your retina and over the curve of your cheek—this was the deepest part of your building, where your most valuable projects are housed. Your wife had called this your secret layer, asking if mustache twirling was a prerequisite for entrance—you’d scoffed, crossing your arms and steadfastly not answering. She’d sooth your wounded ego, and smooth hands over your shoulders, pressing your button down properly in place. It had been a cheap suit then—bought at the mall, because you hadn’t even gotten your first contract yet—you were up to your eyes in loan payments, and your company was little more than a brain trust of ideas.

“You were supposed to turn your credentials in upon termination,” you intone to the silent darkness around you—your voice going tinny and far away as it bounces through the lab. “I’m pretty sure that’s covered in the severance package.” Standing beside the large vat of translucent orange liquid that bubbles and then shoots through the pipes to a large tank in the far back, you try to find the intruder. The security terminal had been accessed, a hand scanned and a retina logged. You have no doubt who it is, and the first rumblings of anger begin leaking into your blood, slipping into your veins and colonizing your heart—turning it black, and rotten, and bad.

“I was never actually fired,” a voice returns, light and far away, and you can’t pin down where it’s coming from. “I don’t think there’s a section in the paperwork for extraterrestrial discovery. I can check with HR if you’d like?” Gritting your teeth, you stop walking, standing in the dash of light given off by the refrigerated cabinet of specimens. The text message you’d received had been a familiar one, because you’d gotten it half a thousand times before. When Kara had stayed late to finish some project or another, and you’d long since thrown your hands up and moved on. You were a frantic mind—you dipped and dashed on projects, flitting from one too another. You couldn’t stall on a conclusion, couldn’t be bogged down with dead ends. You’d work through it eventually—but you would be productive while doing it.

 

 

> **Cal** : Guess who has two thumbs and a solution? This guy.

Unlike in the past there’s no follow up messages.

 

 

> **Cal** : Well, this girl. But like—you know what I mean.
> 
> **Cal** : Just come here.
> 
> **Cal** : Please. I meant to say please.

It’s the messages that always made your wife laugh when she slapped at your phone to see what had woken her up—she’d squint at the screen, and chuckle. “Cal’s got something figured out. You’d better go see what, before she hurts herself in excitement.” You’d press a kiss to her cheek—already throwing on a jacket, and then she’d reel you in by the collar and whisper _a real kiss_ against your lips before claiming said kiss.

There was no kiss tonight—because your wife is dead. She’s dead, and it was Kara’s fault. Looking down at your phone, at the innocuous message sent, you frown because the last time you got such a message was almost three years ago. The same night she’d looked at you with those sad eyes and begged you to understand. Your wife’s blood still on her hands, splashed across her cheeks—and how her eyes glowed. Inhuman and far away, like she’d tucked into herself; the lab had been in shambles, everything shatters, and dented.

Shaking away the memory, you curl your lip in distaste, cracking your neck. “I’m fairly certain even a green card wouldn’t cover that,” you hedge, leaning back against the rail keeping wandering scientists from tipping head first into the vat below. “Come on out, Cal, I don’t have time for this—haven’t you heard? It’s the end of the world outside.” A vicious monster crashing through the heart of National City; people fleeing scared, the military lining the border of town.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” and there she is. You don’t know what you were expecting; maybe some promise of the truths you know about her now. As if she should be someone completely different now that you’ve pulled away the façade of humanity. But she’s—the girl who you’ve known for ten years. Pastel yellow shirt tucked neatly into a cream pair of slacks, thin suspenders that she wore ever since you’d convinced her they were _in_ —you’d gotten an earful from Cat Grant when Kara had shown up to a gala sporting the suspenders. You and your wife had giggled in the hall outside while Cat plucked at them, pretending they weren’t utterly endearing—you should have known then. No human could make Cat Grant’s eyes that soft. Her shoes are soft flats, and her hands are tucked into her pockets. On her breast pocket is her Lorde Technologies badge— **K. Callaghan** , _chief of staff_ —the bottom a reflective blue color, the highest clearance in the building.

“From what I saw, you seemed pretty good at hitting buildings at terminal velocity,”

“Max,” she’s imploring you, pushing the glasses just an inch higher on her nose. “I need to get into the vault.” And _there_ is why she’s here. You’d changed the security locks on the vault, line the door with lead, and hints of meteorite. The green rock unsurprisingly hard to find, but you managed to get a few grams. There was still a section you couldn't access; a door made of a metal you still couldn't identify, locked tight forever more. You'd tried burning through it, but an alarm triggered, and you'd decided it just wasn't worth it.

Kara wasn't worth it.

“Whatever for, _Spectre_?” Drawling the name with a crisp lilt, you cross your arms and arch a brow.

“This isn’t a game!” She’s angry now, that flicker in her eyes that used to thrill you because it was productivity in the making, now makes your stomach knot, and your hands to tense. She’s not the girl who had corrected you in physics—not seeming to care that you were her TA. She’s not the girl who loved Chinese better than any gourmet meal. She’s not the girl who had been best _person_ at your wedding, who had looked uncomfortable and unsure, but had smiled wide the whole while.

No, she’s the creature that decided who lived and who died. Who took those choices away from you, because she thought she knew what was better.

But she doesn’t, and because of it, she ruined your life.

“What do you want, Kara?” You’re frowning, leaning forward and away from your perch, stepping toward her.

“I need the reactor I was working on, Max. It’s in the vault.” She’s walking forward too, until she’s close enough that you can see the blue of her eyes. You always thought her eyes were trustworthy—bright, and clear, and good. And you wonder if you’d just been wrong, or she was just such a good liar.

“And I’ll just hand it over—because?”

“Because it’s mine,” she finishes, jaw tight, “You’re angry at me—I get that—but that doesn’t change who I am.”

“And who are you, Kara?” You’re toe to toe now, and she only has to look up an inch or two to match your gaze. “Because honestly, I don’t know anymore. You’re a liar—I know that much. An alien—know that too. And one of two titans breaking my city to pieces.” You’re hissing the words into her face, and some small little voice at the back of your mind is shouting a warning—that she could shatter every bone in your body before you realized she’d moved. But the part of you that missed her—missed the girl who snorted chocolate milk out her nose because it would make you laugh—didn’t worry at all. And that was the dangerous part of you—the blind faith you shoved deep down. “So, tell me. Who are you?”

“I’m your friend, Max.” She’s whispering, and shrugging, like she’s at a loss; and you’d only seen her like this a few times before. When Cat had flown across the world and left her alone—she’s simpered and slouched through life with a general dispassion. When the New England Patriots managed to ruin a perfect season and she’d wallowed for almost a month. And when she’d attended your wife’s funeral, and you’d asked her— _told her_ —to leave. _I loved her too_ , she’d whispered, scuffing a shoe and walking out of the cemetery.

“With friends like you,” you’re sneering, but you swallow it, smooth your edges and shake your shoulders—it isn’t worth it, “Who needs enemies?”

“You’re a good man,” her hands have pulled free from her pockets, “Hate me—that’s fine. Don’t make National City suffer because of it. Don’t change because of it.” Her face pinches, and her shoulders life—utterly human, in her inhumanity. “And, hey. If my plan works, you won’t have to worry about me anymore. I'll be far, far away.”

Her eyes are wet, “Bonus, you know?”

* * *

Your cousin is the strongest person you know—not because she can carry mountains on her back, or because she deflects bullets with her skin. No, not because of that—but it helps—it’s because she has an unflinching resolve. The kind you read about in the epic fantasy books she read to you when you were young. Of knights, and wizards, dragons and ogres. The hero never balks at adversity, never turns away from the mission—and you should have known. You should have _known_. If you’d been thinking about those heroes—brave, and selfless, and true—you would have remembered what happens to those they love.

“She’ll be here soon.” Cat says, rubbing a hand up and down your arm; nothing really was left on this floor, including a west facing wall—Kara’s body had gone straight through the level without much fanfare. “She has a plan.” Looking out past the limits of the city, you see the creature tearing through the empty desert— _the Ultimate_ , Kara had called it. A shiver had chewed down your spine, and a strange sensation in your chest—like you’d heard of it. Or maybe just that a fear lived in the very blood of your people. There isn’t much time left—and you’re breathing deep, getting ready to help your cousin save the world.

As if summoned by a thought—Kara appears.

Her suit is worn and dirty, and she’s holding a large lead case in one hand—it _thumps_ heavily when she sets it down. Pulling her hood down, and the face mask around her neck, she walks toward you and tugs you into a hug—tight enough that even your Kryptonian bones groan. She’s shaking her head against your shoulder, and you hold her back—wrap her tight and squeeze like you can keep her together on your own. She isn’t unbreakable, you’ve known this for a while now—but there’s something tensile and sure about her in this moment. Like she’s simply taking a deep breath before diving back under.

“I have something to tell you,” she murmurs, brushing her fingertips against Cat’s wrist, and getting a nod in return. You follow her to the center of the building, an abandoned office with all its walls intact—surprise. She closes the door and wrings her hands together, cracking knuckles—the joints popping like gunshots. Following her with your eyes, she’s close to making you dizzy when she spins and exhales. “I have a plan—a crazy plan, but—it could work. It could really work.”

“What’s the plan?” There’s an excitement in your chest because she’s never asked you to help before—always said she was supposed to protect you, and you were supposed to be _normal_.

“Well—they’re from Krypton, so the rocks from our meteor shower will hurt it. Make it weak.” She blinks blue eyes up at you, and she’s smiling, not wide—or particularly large—and it _aches_ inside you. “I’m going to fly it out of the atmosphere; the military was nice enough to lend me a pretty big bomb. I’ll be bleeding UV radiation which will protect me for a little while from the meteorites, and when we get high enough. I’m going to detonate it.” You’re nodding along, following her plan—makes sense, the green rocks from the shower, throwing it into space—and before you can realize what she’s saying—

_Detonate it._

—she’s locked your wrists in thick silver cuffs, they’re tight and groan when you tug, but she toggles a switch on her belt, and they glow green. Your strength simpers and cries, pulling out of you, and your skin suddenly feels two sizes too tight—like it’s retracting around your muscles and bones. Kara’s face is awash with green, and she’s flinching too, her entire face screwed up with pain, hands shaking where she holds your face between her palms.

“I’m so proud of you, Kal-El.” She only calls you Kal-El when she’s flicking through thoughts too quickly, that the translation doesn’t stick, “So _very_ proud. You’ve grown into such a strong, compassionate man—you are the best of our people, Kal, the very best. And it means the world to me that I was able to watch you grow up.” She’s smoothing her clammy hands over your cheeks, and presses her forehead against yours—she’s trembling from the meteorite, breathing hard and choppy.

“Kar—don’t— _do_ this.”

“I have to, baby cousin.” She whispers, “I promised to protect you—but I also have to protect your home.” She makes those slips sometimes—saying _your_ instead of _our_. Like earth wasn’t her home—and you never mentioned it, never thought much about it. How long has she felt like that? How long has she looked to the stars? Searching for a dead planet, thinking _home_.

“Your home— _too_.”

“Only for a little while longer,” her lips are hot against your forehead, and you feel her slipping a necklace over your head—it’s the one you know her mother had given her. When she’d been a child, sent away from a dying planet. “I wouldn’t change a thing—I love you so much, _so_ much. And my only regret is that I won’t see what’s yet to come—watching you graduate, get a job, get _married_.” She’s sniffling, and blood is dripping from her nostril—from the damage already done by the beast ravaging National City. “And like I made my mother a promise—can you make me one?”

You’re shaking your head, thrashing in her hold, but she firms her grip and meets your eyes. “Take care of our family, Kal-El. Your brother’s so young; I want you to read him Peter Pan, and take him to his first day of school, and talk to him about girls, and—and.” She’s sobbing, large uncontrollable tears, while kissing the top of your head. “And Cat—please, understand what I asked of her. Please? She loves her darling boy, and you’ll understand. What you’ll do to protect those you love.”

She’s released you, staggering away, the bruises blossom and worsen across her cheeks, the white of one eyes having burst—but you know it’ll heal when she leaves the room. “I love you,” she whispers, before leaving the room and closing the door. You try to stagger to your feet, to chase after her—to _stop_ her, but you can hardly move. Your bones are heavy, and your muscles are jam. You sob, your forehead rubbing against the carpet.

“ _Kara_.” You scream, her name garbling in your throat, wet with tears and anguish.

* * *

Kara looks like a fallen angel like this—standing at the gaping maw of the sixty-fourth floor, the wall that _used_ to exist in the news room. The sun is finally kissing the horizon after what seems like an eternity, lighting the sky on fire—you wish, not for the first time, that you knew how to paint, because there’s a finality in how she’s looking at you. A chiseled tip of her jaw that lets you know she’s clenching it tight, grinding those indomitable teeth together until even they had to give. Hands bracketed by pockets, you’re reminded of what she looked like when you first saw her—a scrappy youth of thirteen, in a too large shirt and with skyline eyes. If you knew then, what you do now, would you have taken her to dinner? Would you have played tick-tack-toe with a toddler who didn’t know the rules, and declared himself a winner every time?

Would you have fallen in love?

Was the pain worth it?

A million times _yes_.

“I tried to think of something to say on my way over here,” her lips are moving, but it’s like the words float in the air unheard for a moment. Her blood is red—like yours—and her bruises are dark—like yours—and yet. She still doesn’t look human—like a statue brought to life and told humanity awaited on the other side. She’s dressed for the cameras, the _Spectre_ in full form—however, at the moment, her hood was pulled back now, and mask removed. She’s just a girl, pretending at being a savior—how did earth get so lucky? How did this little speck of blue catch such a beacon of hope? Stepping toward her, she watches you with baleful eyes. “The hero is supposed to have something—I don’t know— _inspiring_ to say.” She’s rocking her weight away, like she’ll tip off the building without a tether, and you’re worried this time she won’t stick the landing.

“Who says you’re the hero?” You ask with a smile—because you have to smile, anything else will shatter your resolve to let her go—will crush the stubborn determination keeping your fingers from curling into her collar.

“I’d guess that it’s the five kiloton nuclear weapon, and the box of toxic space rocks,” she jests, and steps forward, off the ruined ledge and toward you. She’s standing so close you can feel the sun bleeding off her—it breaths into the air, and trembles across her skin. Plucking at the hairs on the back of your arm, standing them on end.

“Pretty theory,” you return, “still circumstantial though; I wouldn’t put it in print.”

She’s grinning, dopey and wide, and your heart clenches, because this girl is going to save the world—she’s going to strap a bomb to her back, and fly away into the sunset. She looks so impossibly young—you’ve always thought it, but she always shrugged and dismissed it as good genetics—she hasn’t aged a day since college. Cheeks still smooth and clear, eyes bright and wide—she’s perfect. And you’re about to lose her. And you’ve wasted so much time. _So much_.

“Not wasted! Never wasted.” She’s firm, and you don’t realize you’ve said that last part out loud—the truth slipping from your lips as she catches your cheeks between her palms. She’s impossibly hot, and her skin is buzzing audibly, and you can’t help leaning into her touch—even if her grip is a little tight, and the vibration trembling from her bones rattles your ear drums. “I wouldn’t change a thing. Not one thing. Because—we have Clark, and Carter—they’re _ours_ and beautiful, and—a-and—you have to watch after them now, alright?” She’s crying—and you want to drawl _some hero_ —but she’s damned heroic, the perfect martyr and her forehead is pressed against yours. The world going blurry, and the sun kissing the sky goodnight.

“I made Carter a dentist appointment, it’s written in your planner—and Clark won’t ask, but he’s been saving for a car, and I wanted—I wanted to pay for half.” Her words are slippery and sobbing, and she’s pressing wet lips to yours, and you can’t help returning the kiss. “I know you lost your glasses and have been wearing old ones, so I ordered you another pair—they’re coming in next week.” The way you melt into her is without question, and absolute. “Your assistant’s birthday is next month—get her a gift, she likes flowers—you’ve been pretty intolerable lately with the Tribune launching.” Her inhumanly strong hands are pawing at your soot stained shirt, and she’s lifting you until you’re able to wrap legs around her waist. To feel the solid lines of her sides against your thighs, and the strength of her arms holding you.

“You don’t have to do this,” it’s a chipped and shattered sentence, and it feels hollow, because—if she doesn’t who will? “We’ll find another way.”

“My home, _zrhueiao_ —it crumbled to pieces, and everyone I loved died—I won’t let that happen again. This time—I can stop it,” how can someone survive such an impossible weight? How could they carry it around with them like an unmentionable burden—Kara holds it with grace. A torch for her lost world, pride of being it’s last daughter—she called herself that in jest some nights—when the television was muted, and Clark had texted them goodnight, and Carter was asleep down the hall. Your head would be on her shoulder, and she’d laugh her way through another silent episode of _I love Lucy_.

“The indomitable Cat Grant, media mogul, and Kara Zor-El, the last daughter of Krypton,” you could remember how her soft lips had felt against your temple, “We should have our own television show.”

“Oh? And what genre are you looking to delve into, darling?” You’d drawled, shifting slightly so that you could slot into the curve below her arm, nose against her neck.

“I was thinking—buddy cop show,” her free hand would throw out dramatically, “The Queen of All Media is hot on the trail of crime, who better to call than—,” she’d leap up from the couch, zipping away down the hall and would return with a crimson blanket knotted around her neck, hands on her hips. You recognize the red cape and ridiculous pose from when Clark had been young, “—Supergirl!”

You’ve hurt so much in your life—the small pains that prick until you suddenly realize you haven’t felt them in forever, but you can’t pin down the exact moment they left. And the agonizing knots that sit like stones in your stomach and make you heavy with regret, and anger, and sadness. You know them both intimately—but Kara makes your heart hurt, because it’s warm, and throbbing, and overtaxed with love. She’s precious and consuming, and if you forgot yourself for even half a moment, she’d devour you and you aren’t sure you wouldn’t love it.

“I was going to ask you to marry me, Catherine Jane Grant, some day, when I stopped being a coward—and even if you said no, I’d keep asking.” You both are breathing heavily, wheezing through the tears, and your fingers are tight in her hair—because she’s an _idiot_ , an absolute _idiot_. And you want to tell her how stupid she is, and how stupid _you_ are, but you can’t because she’s so damned beautiful like this. Ruined, and torn, and shaking apart—but she’s exquisite. “I’d keep asking, because you’re it for me—I travelled half a galaxy to find you, and I told myself I’d never lose you. I’d never let you slip away. That'd I'd stay; until the stars go dark.”

“And now I’m losing you,” you whisper, because this is goodbye—even if you refuse to say the actual word.

All those little cracks that splinter through her are showing now, they widen and fissure—and she has no smiles to plaster over them like papier-mâché. She’s reached her breaking point, and you have to be strong _for_ her; you have to kiss her goodbye, and watch as she does the stupidly heroic things she’s capable of.

“But, what did I expect when I fell in love with a comet?” Pressing your lips to hers, wet with tears and resolute. She’s clutching at you, strong hands gripping, and then releasing—lighting up your sides like she’s afraid she’ll hurt you. Unhooking your ankles, you slide down the front of her body, rucking up your clothes even more. “Go be the hero, Kara.” You murmur, tracing a thumb across her cheek, through the track of tears dripping off her jaw, you plunge your fingers into her hair, and tug her in for one last kiss. “Chop chop, supergirl,” _God_ , you voice cracks, and you simper against her lips. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

The timer on her wrist is down to seconds now—chipping away at her time here with you until it’s at forty-three seconds. Forty-two. Forty-one. Kara presses something into your hands—a key—and you don’t have to ask what it’s for—you nod. Thirty-two. Thirty one.

 _Thirty_.

Kara doesn’t look back when she pivots and swan dives off the building—the containment on the nuclear reactor strapped to her back fissures when you mentally get to _zero_. It is a snap through the crumbling silence, and far below you see the sickening glow of green—the meteorites. The beast throws a haymaker that just misses Kara as she swings around and throws a shoulder at its back—knocking it forward and off balance. There’s a shattering roar, and this time it does catch her—wrapping her in a massive fist and then throwing her through what remained of a parking garage.

Is this what the Greeks imagined when they thought of their gods and titans? Monstrous creatures and golden cherubs alighting across the ground, no mind for the lands they changed in their wake. Figures beyond morality, and mortality—shaking the very earth beneath their feet. There’s a strange silence, and then a crack in the air as Kara breaks the sound barrier—too close to properly direct, but she hurls herself into the beast. Catching it in the sternum and then pressing upward—both of them glowing green. The color distorts around Kara, shimmering through a few different hues the further up she got.

Something stumbles behind you, and you turn to find Clark—face pale, dark hair slicked to his forehead, hands bound in silver cuffs—glowing green and bright. His blue eyes—the exact same shade as Kara’s—implore you to help him—but then he’s looking beyond you, out into the city, up into the sky. At the pulsing shimmer of light and color so far away. “Kara,” he whispers, tripping forward and catching himself on a half destroyed wall. “What’s she _doing_? She won’t be able to survive that.” He’s looking at you—that flutter in his eyes causing you pain because—because—he actually think you can do something. That you can be his hero, in the same way Kara is—strong, and unbreakable. Mighty and true.

“She’s saving us.” But your only power is going to be picking up his pieces—slotting them carefully back into place, and making him whole again. Your job with be nurturing that empty place inside him that matches the hole in you—a gap in your heart, just about Kara’s size.

And the sky explodes—flashes of green, and flickers of light, like the atmosphere has set itself on fire. It crawls toward the horizon, jumping from atom to atom, until it’s a streak across the sky. Bright, and blinding, and you have to raise your hand to shield your eyes—it looks like another sun. Spilling daylight into the darkness—and just like that. It’s gone. Like some deity breathed in and swallowed the explosion—such light. And then darkness.

Clark is searching the sky, wincing blue eyes trying to find some proof of life—anything—but nothing falls. Not the beast, not the shell of the reactor, no flickering green comets of Krypton—and certainly not its last daughter. They’re lost to the dark, somewhere out there—but you watch his face, because you still have some twisting kind of hope in your chest. It’s a bastardized version of hope—worn thin and useless, but you hold firm to it nonetheless.

“She’s gone,” Clark sobs, his face crumpling, his breathing going erratic, and you go to him—cradle his head against your stomach, combing fingers through his hair. He’s sweaty and shivering—you have the key in your palm, a way to release him, but you’re selfish, and you take this moment. You need to feel how real he is under your hands, so that when he hates you—you’ll be able to bear it. He’ll hate you—but he’ll be alive. And that’s fine. Because he’ll be _alive_.

“Shh,” you sooth, crouching down, curling over his hunched frame, pressing your nose into his hair—he smells like poorly chosen cologne, axe shampoo, and something unnamed below that—a scent he shares with his cousin. You imagine it is what Krypton smelled like. Like the smell after rain, there's a word for it— _petrichor_ , you remind yourself—like stardust and comet tails. “We’ll make it through this, starling.” He’s the only falling star you have left—your pair is no more, and you’re desperate to keep this last one. “I promise.”

You’re a liar.


	19. snap shot 19. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**.  _You think about writing it all down sometimes—not in the beginning, but later, when events start to pile up, and up, and up, and you can’t see the beginning anymore. You don’t want to forget the important moments—the ones that you cherish, but have no control over. The people who made it possible._ // prompt from daystarsearcher, fixwolves.

* * *

Mister Callaghan loves the Fourth of July, there is no question that it is his favorite—he said it was because you celebrated something bigger than yourself, something tangible. You had made some face, and he deduced that you had to be _Canadian_ , but it was alright—he liked you anyway. You would carry boxes out of the basement of his home, and pile them into his station wagon to bring to the bookstore, he’d prattle on the whole while about George Washington, and the Vietnam War—and the Reconstruction Act of 1867, which seemed unusually specific, but he would wave away the question, and keep talking.

“Invite that girl you like,” he rasps at you when sorting through his fireworks.

You guffaw, face burning, “I don’t _like_ her.”

He took a moment, looking at you with squinting blue eyes behind thick lenses and shook his head, “Oh, I didn’t realize you fawned over people you don’t like. Invite that girl you _don’t_ like.”

You throw your hands up, flopping backwards onto the picnic table in the small courtyard behind the store—arm tossed over your eyes, because you didn’t _like_ Cat—not like that. Or, did you? Still laying on your back head turned to the side so you could watch Clark twirl himself into a strand of red, white, and blue lights, that Mister Callaghan’s nephew was supposed to be stringing up along the rafters, but he’d since left to go make out with his girlfriend. The whole gathering was a patch work of half-thought decorations—all the extended relatives already three or four beers in.

Clark took it upon himself to throw his small body on top of you and pull at your cheeks, “Kitty?” His chin rested on your sternum, and his hands pawed at your cheeks like grubby little— _feelers_ , and exhaling loudly, there was a sudden clatter in your chest because—did you like her? It was a stupid distinction to make, you’re deciding, because _of course_ you like her. You wouldn’t spend so much time with her if you didn’t; you didn’t understand. Catching Clark under his arms, you toss him up—a little higher than you should be able to, but Mister Callaghan just shakes his head and tell you to _stop messing around_.

You toss him once more for good measure, before setting the wiggling toddler back on the ground.

“I’m going to go get Cat,” you tell Mister Callaghan unnecessarily, and he just blinks at you—eyebrow raised.

His thin lips twist a little, “The girl you don’t like.”

“I—well—I thought about it—and maybe—I do.” You supply, hands shoved in your pockets, looking at his moccasins; you’d gotten them for him for Christmas, and he’d worn them faithfully since. “Like her—that is.”

Deep breath, deep breath, “What should I do?”

Setting down all his barbeque utensils, he sits on the wooden picnic bench, and slaps the spot next to him for you to sit. “Did I ever tell you how I met Eleanor?” You’d never met the woman, but you’d heard enough stories to know she was warm, and loving, and smiled for everyone. Oh, you’d also heard about how she didn’t tolerate any nonsense, and ran both store and house with a silken iron fist.

“No,”

He smiles, “Well, I’d just gotten out of the service, and my father wanted me to get steady work—working in my uncle’s shop as a mechanic. Eleanor knew my brother, schmuck that he is, and he was mighty keen on her—she was a beauty. Dark hair, gorgeous eyes—and smart as a whip. Way out of my league.” No one embodies love like Mister Callaghan. It settles into every line of his face, into the thin crack of his lips, and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Making a stern looking man soft and lovely.

You think your father would have worn love the same way if he’d been given the chance.

“Well—my brother thought himself entitled to such a fine woman, thought it was his proper right given he was book smart and graduating college with a fancy degree in Literature.” The way he upturns his palms on his knees, looking at the crater deep lines across—you know they have distinctions. Heart, head, life and fate. It was one of the only things you know that set you apart from humanity—your smooth fingertips and creaseless palms.

No line to trace, no indication of where to go from here.

“And fool told her as such— _Eleanor, you can do no better than me_. _So why try_?” His voice warbles as he imitates his brother—who you’ve met a handful of times, and you know he doesn’t sound that high pitched. “You know what he got for his efforts?”

You shrug, but television has taught you this, “A slap?”

“Oh no! Eleanor wasn’t the slapping type—curled that dainty little fist of her’s real right, and broke my brother’s nose. Damned fool was left nursing his nose—and his pride.” You’re blinking because—you don’t want to punch anyone, and—you don’t think Cat will punch you. Mister Callaghan’s smiling, and it is slightly crooked on one side, drooping a little, because of the stroke he had last winter—you’d spent most of January in the ICU reading him the Dwight Eisenhower biography he was in the middle of.

“And—then she married you?” You feel like you’re missing something, but he just nudges your shoulder with his.

“Oh, heaven’s no. Told her though—next time, she shouldn’t tuck her thumb into her fist, chances are she might break it. And, she’ll be able to hit the next schmuck twice as hard for daring to assume her worth.” His wide hand lands on the top of your head, and when he musses up your hair, you don’t shy away like you used to. He’s an affectionate old man, even if he’s ornery most of the time—he never makes you feel the burden for asking him these questions. The things that don’t line up properly in your mind.

“Listen, kiddo.” He’s whispering, like it’s a secret he’s giving to just you. “Your girl? She’s like Eleanor—she doesn’t want you fighting her battles for her, and she sure as hell doesn’t need you to. You just got to be there to remind her to untuck her thumb, because she liable to hurt herself. Alright?” Nodding, you think you understand, tucking your hands into pockets as you stand to leave, pressing a kiss to Clark’s head before you go, making him promise to be good—and _helpful_.

Cat’s mother had gone out of the country spur of the moment—you’d both watched her with quiet eyes as she paced the foyer with her phone pressed against her ear, hand thrashing through the air wildly. One of her clients—some haughty author—was pitching a fit about their exposure in Europe, and was demanding a different deal. Cat had translated for you the whole while—whispering in your ear, while trying not to laugh. Kathrine Grant is a battle axe of a woman—it’s a phrase Mister Callaghan uses to describe his late wife—her nose narrow, and her eyes shrewd. You’d shaken in your scuffed sneakers the first time you’d met her—the first time those lingering blue eyes assessed you.

“You’re the ruffian leaving black marks on my polished floors,” she’d hummed, while flicking lint off her shoulder, like your mere presence had put it there. You’d swallowed, and promised to not wear your boots anymore—and she’d simply replied, “See that you do,” and left. Cat had a shadow in her eyes that night—like a cloud passing overhead, and you’d done your best to cheer her up.

Hours later, you’re sitting side by side on the roof of the _Bruised Apple_ , kicking your heels out and away, until they swing back and hit the bricks. The night is balmy, spring having already tripped into summer, and the wail of sirens is too close—because Cat is on your side of town. She’s stepped away from the chrome and glass of the west side, and found herself here; across the street from a pawn shop, and down the road from a crack den. It isn’t a _bad_ neighborhood, but no one parks their cars on the street here—well, no one who wants to still have their car in the morning. But Cat never worries about it—there’s a fearlessness to her that you cherish. Oh, her heart jackhammers when someone steps too close, and her palms go clammy when it’s just a little too dark—but she’s unflinching. If anything her chin raises just a little higher, and her jaw clenches just a little tighter.

Cat was comfortable around the Callaghans—a loud, affectionate bunch that had accepted two orphans into their midst without much fanfare. They danced, and sang—and Cat had tugged you onto the makeshift dance floor to watch you flail your limbs in a litany of directions. Clark stood on her feet as she slow danced them around the circle, and Mister Callaghan’s niece had _tried_ to teach you how to do a _two-step_. No. You didn’t care how many steps it involved; you were bad at it.

Sitting above the quieting clan, you realize you haven’t thought of Krypton all day.

You thought about Cat—and how you’d like very much to kiss her.

“When you punch someone,” you break the silence, peering down off the ledge to the courtyard below where Mister Callaghan’s brother—Percy—is bickering with his daughter about fire ordinances. “You shouldn’t put—your thumb shouldn’t be—in it. Tucked in.” The sentence comes out a garbled mess, and you frown, because you haven’t been this bad at English in over a year.

“O—kay?” Cat drawls, blinking at you slightly, lips pursed, and “Are we fighting someone?”

“No, no.” You exhale all the air in your lungs, hoping Cat doesn’t notice how the air cools and frosts, before you inhale. “I’m trying—what I wanted to say—I.” You’re glancing at her lips, and you don’t mean to—but they’re light pink, and glossy, and soft—you groan in frustration. Because you know what you want to say—you want to tell her she’s amazing, and she could do so much better than you, and be anything she wants to be—but despite that, despite being able to have anyone she wants…

Did she want you?

She’s looking at you with eyes green as bottled glass, you’d seen it at the beach—a tiny ship trapped in a bottle, masts white and unfurled—the glass sharp and green. You’re about to abort your attempt, to wave away what you’d been saying—because you don’t know why Cat would want—

Her lips are as soft as they look. Softer.

Her hand is light on your cheek, and you don’t know when you’ve closed your eyes, but suddenly there’s only the warm breeze, Cat’s lips against yours—and the first firework of the night. Dashing colored sparks across the black sky. Your lips are a little sticky from her lip gloss, and when you open your eyes, her cheeks are a little red, and her eyes dance. Her hand is still against your cheek, and your heart is thundering in your chest.

“I figured I’d help you out.” She’s smiling at you, softer than how she smiles at school—and smaller than how she smiles for Clark. A smile just for you. Before you lose whatever nerve you have, you lean forward and kiss her—leaning a little too far forward, your teeth clank with her’s, but you can only grin as she laughs. Lighter, airier.

“I was getting there,” you huff, still close enough that the tip of your nose brushes hers.

“I didn’t have all summer, supergirl.”


	20. snap shot 20. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (CARTER).** _In first grade you were asked to draw your family tree. You’d drawn a cloud instead, because most of your family came from the sky—your teacher called your mother and asked if she’d allow you to be tested. When you bring the picture home your mother smiles and looks at it, “it’s beautiful, baby,” you point to the pictures, “Mama’s the sun, Clark’s the moon, and you’re the sky.” She blinked quickly, that usually meant she was crying—but you don’t want her to be sad. “Where’re you, baby?” You smile, “I’m the air.”_

* * *

You’re three when she dies.

You can’t remember much, can’t parse out the facts from the fabrications—your mother says you need to sort your thoughts, set them into boxes, and label each. You’re three and staying with your father in New York City. He works most of the time, but turns the television on for you—you don’t know what show it is, but that’s not the type of thing that bothers you. You turn the volume all the way down until you can’t hear it—your mama usually narrates them for you, in the language that she taught you, the one with the dipping vowels and the curled consonants. When it is just the two of you, she only speaks that—murmuring the sounds in your ear while touching just the tip of her finger against something.

 _Ghozh_ —clothes. _Riz_ —yellow.

You didn’t want to talk—not because you couldn’t, you decided not to.

When your mother comes home, mama stands behind her and puts hands on both shoulders—grinning wide, and curling her tongue around another word, “ _B ythgr_.” Your mother would scowl, slapping hands and shrugging them off, before walking over to pick you up—slinging you onto her hip. Pushing your hair out of your eyes, and you know she wants to give you a haircut—but mama say you could be in a rock band if you kept it long.

She’s the singer—you get to be the drummer.

“Should I be concerned about what you’re teaching our son?”

You chirp, “Queen! _B ythgr_ means queen!” And mother would get soft around the eyes, like she’s smiling, but her lips never move. She knows parts of the language, but she doesn’t have mama’s accent—the echo that buzzes at the edges of her words, through the middle of the sounds. Clark can almost do it—but even his is off, like he has taken too large a breath and air leaks out unintentionally when he opens his mouth.

You haven’t heard mama’s language in six days.

“ _Ehk_ —water.” So you say it out loud to yourself—touching the screen that wiggles around your fingertip. There are four fish on screen—the orange one is anxious, his face tells you so. He’s missing the smaller orange one. “ _Ten_ —four.” You’re too close to the television, but your father never tells you to move back—your mother says you will go cross eyed.

You don’t believe you’re cross eyed.

The screen goes blank, and then a face appears—you recognize her from the news that your mother watches in the morning. She’s pretty—you try to remember the name for her hair. “ _Iahr_ ,” red. She blinks away and there is a city splashed across the screen—you know it is a city, but it is not one you recognize. No city has so many buildings laying down—but you recognize the large CATCO logo in the background. The _A_ has gone dark—CTCO. You suppose it’s the same.

“The creature seems to have stopped in mid-town, tearing through much of the banking district in National City.” You can’t see whose talking, but you know you live in National City—you’re in New York City, but you live in National City. “The _Spectre_ was last seen going into CatCo headquarters, but nothing has been seen since—the military has quarantined the city, and any effort on their part has been easily negated.” The monster is gray, and pointy, and seems to enjoy tearing cars in half. Maybe this is why your mother refuses to park her car on the street—because of this monster.

Your father has come into the room to stand behind you—his work shirt ruffled, and his sleeves rolled. He’s not wearing a tie today, but that was because he spilled mustard on it—because _that son of a bitch put too much on_. He looks concerned, and you watch him instead of the television—his eyes are dark, “ _Ehkov_ —blue.” He looks at you, lips pinching, before he’s cursing and scratching at the top of his head. The monster is fighting now—a small figure hitting it over, and over, the glow of them, “ _Ehshov_ —green.”

You recognize the second figure—she had been wearing it when she’d kissed you goodbye, before your mother drove you to the airport to meet your father. The dark clothing, and the raised hood—your mama has let you tug at each layer, and her eyes were very _ehkov_. “They call me the _Spectre_ ,” she had been saying, not flinching when you tug her— _jrizynj_ , gold—hair. “ _Dokhahsh_ —that’s how we say it.” We—she always said _we_ ; because Clark didn’t want to spend the time to learn, and your mother was married to English.

“ _Dokhahsh_ ,” you tell your father, jabbing your finger at the screen, the colors warping, and he grabs your wrist to pull it away. Snatching it from him, you frown.

“Knock it off, Carter,” he isn’t mean, no—he’s _stern_ —he doesn’t know what to do with you, so he puts you in front of the television. But now he’s here—in front of your television. He’s jabbing at his phone, and you can faintly hear how it rings—and rings—and rings. No one answers. He tries again. And again.

And again.

Your mama has wrapped around the monster and they go up—and up—and up. The blonde woman is talking still, but her words have started to buzz, every fourth word dropping. The screen is all dark sky, and nothing else—until there’s an explosion. Red, and yellow, and orange—and it breathes, but it ripples, and wavers, and then—

It’s gone.

“Shit,” your father says, and you know it’s a bad word, but he says it again and rubs his hand over his face. You’re watching the screen, but nothing is moving—the sky is black, and colorless, and nothing is moving. _They give me cat scratch fever—Cat scratch fever—the first time I got it I was just ten years old, got it from—_ his phone is ringing, and he drops it in surprise before swiping it up and taking the call.

“Jesus Christ, Grant.” He’s hissing, standing up and walking out of the room—but not before messing up your hair. Getting up, you follow—too far behind that he notices, but he never notices much. “Are you alright? I saw your building on the news—of course I care, you’re the mother of my fucking kid.” He’s rubbing his face again, and you know it’s because he didn’t sleep last night—his girlfriend was over, and then his office light was on. You didn’t sleep either, but that was because mama said you’d be able to see Jupiter with just your eyes.

She can always see Jupiter, but she always tells you when you'll be able to too.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, okay?” He’s sighing, and leaning against the wall, “I’m just glad you’re alright—understandable, I’ll pick you up from the airport.” A long pause, he’s just nodding—and you can’t hear anything, but he turns and stops upon seeing you. “He’s right here—yeah, he saw. Hey, big man, your mom wants to talk to you.” She’s talking before it’s even against your ear.

“Carter—baby, I’m coming to get you early, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Were—did you see anything, baby?”

“Mama went up.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

* * *

You’re seven when Clark explains things to you.

You’re in Metropolis, because your mother had to go away for work—she’d complained the whole time it took her to get dressed, asking you multiple times if you wanted her to cancel— _Honestly, sweetheart, you’re more important than Barbara Walters_ —but you wouldn’t give her an excuse. She pouted, kissed your forehead, and said your brother was coming to pick you up—but, were you _sure_ you didn’t want her to stay? You’d been firm—because someone has to be—and she kissed you again, and left. You had been able to hear yelling at the driver who was parked in the back lot of the building—instead of out from, and knew she’d be calling you from Atlanta with a migraine.

You made sure to pack her Treximet. She always forgets.

Clark was on the balcony five minutes later, and he’s rubbing a smudge of red off his cheek—a matching one to the mark on your forehead. Your mother’s lipstick a staple of your brotherhood. “She got you too?” You grin, while he grouses, nearly tripping on the bunched up rug in the living room, because your mother had flipped it trying to find her missing earing. He matches you grin for grin, and catches your head in his armpit to rub his knuckles across your skull. Telling you to _say uncle_ , and you refuse—and refuse—until you give in and he releases you.

“Ready to go, bud? Just me and you for the weekend.” You love spending time with Clark; he lives in Metropolis, and it would be an inordinate distance if he couldn’t break the sound barrier. He flies here, and takes the plane back with you—and she’d meet you in Metropolis and fly back with you. It would be chaos, if you hadn’t done this half a dozen times before.

Clark apartment in Metropolis is nice—you think—but he has too much stuff, that he just piles it in the cupboard on the far side of the kitchen. They’re neat piles, you’ll give him that, but all it takes in one thing to unbalance and it all comes crashing down. He’s made you a grilled cheese sandwich, and promised to not try cooking anything beyond that—the spaghetti incident that shall never be mentioned, is enough to encourage take out.

“So,” he’s rubbing his head, hair too shaggy, “I was—I thought we could talk.” He puts two binders on the table, and lets them sit there; his finger tapping on them, until he sums up whatever courage he’s looking for. “So—you know me and Kara. We’re—we’re different, right?” You nod, and he pushes the first binder toward you. It is one of the cheap ones from Office Max, a soft cover, and crack in the corner. There’s notes, and notes, and notes—and you recognize it as the language your _ieiu_ wrote in. Circles, and boxes, and lines. They look like pictures, and there’s a little curl at the edge of each one, that links them together, almost like cursive.

“You’re an alien,” you supply.

“I’m an al—wait, you know?” His blue eyes widen, and you shrug, flipping another page.

Looking at him between pages, “Mom calls you ET, Clark. I’m seven, not stupid.”

His lips purse, the same way your mother does when she’s trying not to smile or laugh at something you’ve done that is _inappropriate_. But he fails just as readily as her, and he grins—shoving your head lightly to one side with an exhale. “Man, this just got a lot easier.” Shoulders slouching, he reaches across and flips to a page close to the back—it looks like a city of spires. Tall and thin, like shards off ice out of a desert—the land is barren and cracked. “This is Argo City, where Kara was from—it was the largest city on Krypton, though the capital was Kandor.” You turn the page, and another city unfolds—smaller, shorter, but the ground crumbling.

“What happened?”

He clears his throat, and another page turned, and it was a circle of destruction—like the planet had chewed inward on itself, and throws itself outward. “When I was just a baby, Krypton’s core destabilized—there was no way to reverse the effects. So my parents sent me away on a small pod—and Kara was sent to protect me. She was twelve.” The way the picture sits—the delicate angle, the particular spread of destruction. She must have seen it—seen her world blow up. Your eyes are getting wet, but you clench your jaw like you do at school when the older kids pick on you—breathing deep through your nose.

“Did you—have powers on Krypton?”

“I don’t think so—the way it was explained to me was that I get my abilities from the yellow sun—Krypton’s sun was a red star. So, I guess, as long as the sun shines, I’ll be—you know, super.” He lets you take your time, flipping through the pages—looking at each picture, each line of symbols. You could speak the language, but you had never learned to write in it. Clark’s Kryptonese is rusty, and he fumbles over words—your mother’s is even worse, she mainly only knows how to curse—so having this knowledge in your hands, you ask Clark if you can take them home.

“Absolutely, bud.” His eyes are a little glossy too, and you know he’s clenching his jaw and breathing out, “Kara’d want you to have them.”

When he walks by, you pretend not to notice him wiping at his eyes—he returns with a box, and a notebook. Putting them on the table, he’s smiling now. “Can you keep a secret?” Leaning forward, “A real secret, Carter—pinky promise.” He extends his pinky, and you wrap your’s around it and shake. He pops the lid open, and there’s a mess of blue and red fabric. “When Kara was being a superhero, she didn’t want to draw attention to her—to us—but, she deserves it. People should know. We can’t go back—but we can go forward.”

You have to stand up to start unfolding the fabric—it’s a royal blue, and the draped fabric is crimson. You don’t know what it is until you see the crest—a crimson ‘S’, lined in gold. You know it isn’t just a letter, because _ieiu_ used to draw it on things. She called it the crest of her house—the sigil of House El. Rubbing your fingers across the edge, it was harder than the rest, stiff and almost metallic. “I’m going to make _ieiu_ proud, bud. Make sure this planet she saved—stays that way. And they’re going to know who’s doing it.” She’d always been very close to the chest about things— _cagey_ , your mother called it.

“I won’t tell,” definitely not; you don’t want to even be in the same room when your mother finds out.

* * *

You’re nine when your mother starts to date again.

You’d think she’s going to see Barbara Walters again, because she’s complaining the whole while—lining her eyes in the mirror, and spraying too much hair spray. You munch on pretzels while she paces barefoot in the living room, holding two dresses up. One is a midnight blue, the other a deep purple—they’re both nice, but she’s shifting them to and fro in the light, like that should make much of a difference. You can tell it isn’t because she wants to look her best—she’s already said she looks amazing in anything, and you happily nod. But she’s stalling, because she’s asking you every five minutes if you’re alright with this.

“Purple,” you pick, because you like the gold edge, it just _looks fancy_. She squints at it, before nodding and walking down the hall and getting dressed—leaving the door open so she can talk to you while you slouch on the couch. It’s winter break, and this is the first year Clark won’t be home for Christmas—he Skyped every day to apologize, but he was in Central America covering the relief efforts for the Earthquake. Superman made a few appearances, and your mother had just rolled her eyes.

“Miss Juniper from downstairs will be watching you,” she’s shimmying down the hall, tugging one side of the dress, and then turning so you can zip up the back. Giving her two thumbs up, she starts slipping shoes on—easily five inches, because you’re getting taller, and she grouses about it.

“I thought you hated Miss Juniper?”

“Hate implies I have any feeling toward her at all,” she snuffs, “she’s just a brown nosing republican band wagoner.” Standing up, there’s a knock on the door, and she frowns—she’d only agreed to this date because she didn’t want _to go stag_ —according to Clark—to Lorde Technologies’ gala. She’d run into Maxwell Lorde last week while you were at the museum, and he was thrilled to explain the new exhibit he was opening—and how eye opening it would be. You don’t understand them, because they smile at each other, and laugh together—but their eyes go flat. Like there’s something sitting behind their teeth that neither of them will acknowledge.

She’d said, “I’d love to go,” with a tone that implied a few curse words.

When she opens the door there’s a man with thick dark hair, and a plastic smile—he has a well-trimmed black tuxedo, but the piping clashes with purple, and you can see the moment your mother starts scratching away at her impression of him. His second mistake is trying to kiss her hand before she even says anything; she pulls away with little more than a _hello_ and walks back over to you.

“I’ll be home earlier than I thought,” she doesn’t kiss your cheek, because she just reapplied, but she noses your hair, “Why don’t you pick out a movie, and we’ll watch it when I get home.”

Miss Juniper spent much of the night going through the cabinets in the kitchen like your mother had said she would—and you texted with Clark. He was sending you pictures of the rain forest, and of the ruins that were just outside the village he was in. It is just over an hour later when your mother returns, her hair mussed and her lips frowning—apparently her date owned a convertible, and saw no reason they shouldn’t ride with the top down in the middle of December.

When Miss Juniper is gone—with a few things pilfered from your cabinets, your mother had only sighed—you sit side by side watching _Oliver and Company_. The heavy blanket from your bed is spread across the couch, and you’re tucked into her side, her cheek on the top of your head. When the castle flickers on the screen and _Once Upon a Time in New York City_ starts to play she starts whispering—like someone other than you could hear.

“You know I’m not trying to replace your mama, right?” Her finger is tapping on the blanket over your knee, grabbing her arm and making sure it’s completely wrapped around you. You can hardly remember what your _ieiu_ looked like anymore—you have dreams about blue eyes, and sometimes when you walk past someone with gold hair you have to pause, especially if the sun is starting to fall. There are no pictures in the main hall, and you stopped seeking them out in your mother’s room—there’s one you have on your nightstand. A woman sprawled across a couch with a hood and mask on, one boot off, and an infant on their chest.

“I know.”

“Good,” she pauses, scratching fingers through your hair like she did when you were much younger, when the world was loud, and every room impossibly large. She’d fill the bathtub with blankets, and would hold you against her—humming a song you know she got from your _ieiu_. She doesn’t know all the words to the Kryptonian lullaby, but she knows enough, and once every quiets a little—and your words fit on your tongue again. You’d translate them for her; _shahrrehth_ —faith, _tahvot_ —reach, _mish_ —ahead. You’d do it over and over, until your skin stopped crawling, and your eyes no longer ached. It happened infrequently now, and you haven’t needed her to hum for a while—but sometimes you hear her while she washes dishes, or does paperwork.

“I want you to be happy, mom,” you say quietly, eyes on the screen—you both do this, look ahead because it’s easier to say what you feel without looking for a reaction. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” her arm pulls you closer, your head under her chin, “I have you—and your brother. And the unwashed masses practically grovel at my feet—it’s rather exhilarating.” You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s smiling, but that isn’t what you mean, and she knows it.

“Maybe you should get a girlfriend—instead of a boyfriend?”

She clucks her tongue, “Well, aren’t we open minded tonight.”

“Mom,” you groan.

She laughs, “I’ll think about it.” Huey Lewis is still singing about new beginning, and dreams, and yesterdays. Your mother’s humming along, and your eyes are already drooping, but you’re determined to make it to at least Georgette. “I love you, baby.”

Maybe you won’t, “Love you too, mom.”

* * *

You’re thirteen when National City Airlines flight 237 is saved.


	21. snap shot 21. ( 10, 25, 31, 39 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. _You always said you'd never become your mother, and in so many ways you've failed—you see it sometimes when you look in the mirror—something beyond her nice cheekbones and arched brows. But you hope, in your heart of hearts, that the ways that you are different are what really matters—that they are the true definition of your character._

* * *

Your mother—while rather intoxicated—told you love wasn’t forever. It was a fickle broken thing that sat like shards of glass in the heart, waiting for one pump to settle wrong so that it could twist those shards like razors—carve out pieces of you, until there was only a bloody maw left in your chest. You’d been young, and the graphic description had been enough so that you didn’t sleep for two days—dreaming of bloody hearts tumbling across the floor, broken mirrors stuck through them, reflecting back your face—your face, except your eyes had been blackened out, burned and festering.

You thought of it every so often—what your mother had said—when your father had died, and your best friend’s parents got a divorce. Your mother had just shaken her head, lips pursed, like she was the only person not foolish enough to fall in love. You asked her after your father’s funeral if her heart was broken. If there was glass sitting in it and she’d smiled, not happy—never happy—but like she knew some great secret you wouldn’t be privy to.

Jokes on her; you always knew she didn’t love your father.

So why are you here—nine years later—wounded so imperatively? If love wasn’t forever, why had the burn never gone away? Why had that thawing cold never slipped anywhere other than into your bones and joints, into the pumping edges of your aging heart. It’s something you should really look into, because there has to be an explanation somewhere. People fall in and out of love all the time; hell, you don’t think a single couple whose wedding you’d attended, were still married. Granted—a select few of them were because of extenuating circumstances, but still.

So why did your heart still hurt?

“Why do you put me through this?” You grouse, tipping back the inordinately expensive scotch you’d filled your glass with a half hour ago, when you were forced to begin this ridiculous endeavor.

“Because all my other friends are in love with the idea of love,” Alexandra Danvers has her hands on her hips—weighed down by at least twenty pounds of tactical gear—and you can only roll your eyes, because _friends_ is code for fellow agents. “You are bitter, brutally honest, and decent company once you’ve hit tipsy—oh, not to mention, you made the profile.”

You wave off her point, “Watching you pine was worse than an ASPCA commercial, and you know how emotional Sarah McLachlan makes me.” So you _may_ have made her a Tinder profile—and spent the last week swiping for her—without her knowledge.

“I don’t pine,” she insists.

“You do; it’s sad. You do this—” you gesture vaguely to her face, which makes her tuck her brows and frown, “ _—thing_ with your face; see? You’re doing it right now. That pensive look.”

She exhales, still glaring, hands still on hips, but you’ve moved on and she’s learned that you will not participate in her attempts at intimidation if she doesn’t make it worth your while.

“You’re one to talk,”

“Pensive isn’t one of my staple expressions—though I do give brooding a try now and again. I really feel it sits well on my brow line.” You know what she’s doing—and again, you will not engage. Tipping back a little more scotch, the warmth spills into your chest and sits there around your heart. Alex has since moved from her stance in the middle of the room, and loosened the rigid flex of her arms. “Now, you should really pick something to wear that doesn’t accent your biceps, because you’re going to dinner at that place you wanted to go, not an iron man competition.”

“You got us a table at Yekong? The waiting list is something like eight months,” and _now_ there’s that ridiculous brightness in her eyes. Not that you care, or are trying to make her feel better—no, never.

“The proprietor is the husband to one of the women in my poker game,” you dismiss, and finish your drink—jingling it so that the ice rattles, until Alex takes it and gets you a refill. “She owed me for not exposing their weird sexual fetishes—which really was for my own peace of mind, but let her think otherwise.”

How exactly you ended up having drinks regularly with Alex Danvers is not something you can trace the roots back to—though you have your suspicions. After the incident with Doomsday—you’d tugged yourself up by your boot straps in just enough time to tell the story your way—you’d been tumbling through day to day life. Your building was under construction, the city was trembling, and nothing made sense—or as much sense as a battle between titans can be. When the vigilantes were just slipping through the dark knocking out drug dealers, and ending petty gang wars it had been easy enough to accept them.

But the simple _amount_ of destruction they were capable of had shocked the masses—had spurred humanity to splinter into their number of sects. Some flung themselves to the right and swore Earth belong to only humanity—that they would not stand martian feet on their good green mother nature. And others had accept these battles as biblical messages of beings greater than humanity with untold power—of gods walking amongst them. You want to tell them that one of their _gods_ cried at the end of _Homeward Bound_ every single time—and that she had once gotten her head stuck in the banister of your mother’s house.

Alex had shown up at CatCo, had limped her way through the chaos, and she’d been red eyed and haunted—she’d told you that there had been no other way, that they had tried everything, _done_ everything. You had been numb at the time; Clark wouldn’t speak to you after you’d unlocked the meteorite cuffs from his wrists. His eyes had been sad and angry, and there’d been the telltale flicker of light behind his skyline blue eyes—before he’d shot from the floor and off into the darkness of night.

You’d called Carter, and your heart had dropped because he’d been watching the news— _mama went up_ —and the simple obliviousness in his tone shattered you. Because Kara had promised to take him to see the Polar Bears—not at the zoo, but in the arctic, but after his week with his father. _After_ would now be _never_. And there was Alex, cracking in ways that—while not identical to you—was fucking similar. She was shattering for the girl, not the titan—not the _god_. But for the girl who had still had nightmares, and liked pistachio ice cream best, and blushes easily, and smiled even easier. Who loved, and loved, and loved this planet that she asked so very little from—just for it to simply continue to be there for those she cherishes.

And hugging her had seemed the only course of action—curling fingers into the black starched fabric of her shirt, and sobbing into the strong line of her shoulders. There was no pretense to uphold—no public to fool—and you had been able to crumble together. And when you’d gone dry, and your fingers were painfully tight, she’d offered you a military transport to New York City, to collect your wayward youngest, because your oldest was probably in the fortress, and all commercial flights had been grounded.

“Go get your boy,” she’d cracked, rubbing fiercely at her cheek, while you’d wiped your tears away with the wet naps every mother has in bulk, “Kara’s boy.”

You suppose that was the beginning—or maybe just some deciding middle.

Now, you’re stuck as her shackled sense of fashion because she couldn’t dress herself on her own if she had the entirety of Vera Wang’s collection at her disposal. It really is a lesson in humility, because even _you_ can only do so much.

“When’re you going to go on a date?” She calls from the other room, while you glance at your watch—twenty minutes, one of her longer times to asking about your love life.

“I date.”

“Oh, is that what you call it—from where I’m standing it looks more like a blood sport.” Alex walks out of the room, wearing a dark maroon dress that hugs in all the right places, and really accentuates those body builder shoulders in a way that doesn’t suggest recreational drug use. “I read an article the other day in a rather reputable magazine; they have compiled a list of criteria one has to have, to keep dating Cat Grant. It’s a really impressive list—did you really break up with someone because they pronounced it _cold slaw_?”

You snort—gracefully, of course, “It’s unacceptable.”

“And because they hold their fork over handed?”

“You can’t take people like that anywhere.”

“And because they eat their vegetables one at a time?”

“Not just any vegetable—peas. He ate _peas_ one at a time.”

You’re waving away the rest of her points, because you usually didn’t have to work too hard about finding a habit that you were willing to break up with someone over. Both Carter and Clark tried to reason with you, but a few minutes of the silent treatment usually persuaded them not to keep digging that particular hole.

Standing up, and tipping back your glass, you set it on the table and walk toward her; she doesn’t shuffle awkwardly like Kara used to, but there’s a certain air—if you knew her well—that says she’s more comfortable in a nice pant suit Straightening how it sits, you inspect her closer and nod. “This one doesn’t look horrible,” which is glowing recommendation from you. “Your face is rather symmetrical, so you don’t need much make up.”

“Isn’t everyone’s face symmetrical?

“You’d be surprised, Agent Scully.” You intone while ushering her toward the en suite where you push her into a chair with two fingers against her sternum. “Alright, let’s clean you up, and find you a wife.”

She sputters, “Wait, I’m going out with a woman?”

“Did I not mention that? Don’t worry, she’s lovely—tall, bendy, likes mysteries. You got along with her wonderfully.”

Frowning, Alex bats your hand away again, “You talked to her—as me.”

“Well, we got along swimmingly, and I have wonderful taste in women.”

“You dated an alien.”

Grinning, “See? High standards, there’s only a few of those about.”

You eventually take matters into your own hands and grab her chin, turning it this way and that, and you will admit there’s a kind of power that courses through you when she gives up and her arms fall limply to her lap. It’s the small things really.

“Did you ask her if she eats peas one at a time?”

Clicking your tongue, while lining her eye, “Didn’t come up. Though she does believe in holistic medicine and has some very interesting opinions on astrology that you might enjoy. Aren’t you an astrologist?” You know damn well she isn’t.

Alex begins to frown, but you tap her lip and she tucks her brow instead, “I’m an astrophysicist.”

Grinning, “Oops.” Finishing a layer of gloss, you tell her to blot and pucker and scrutinizing your work, you’re pleased with the result. “Just remember, when she’s blathering on about the sun dancing with mercury, or whatever—she’s bendy, very bendy.”

How do you not have more friends?

You’re such a good friend.


	22. snap shot 22. ( 7, 19, 21 )

**SNAP SHOT (CALLAGHAN)**.  _You wish you had a few more years—but you’d gotten eight more than your mother had, and fifteen more than your father. You suppose you shouldn’t get greedy_. // Prompt from anonymous.

* * *

The world you’re leaving is very different than the one you entered—in some ways you love it, the progression, the change, but in other ways, you still don’t understand. It’s like watching the sun rise without knowing the exact time—five or six, it doesn’t really matter, because that doesn’t change the fact that it’s morning, and the day has started. National City had been much smaller when you’d moved here—you are a Boston man, born and raised, but you’d made the sleepy little city your home back in the fifties, before businesses moved in and the districts were drawn up.

At seventy-nine years old, you don’t wonder anymore if you’ll make it to eighty—it sits like a soft truth in your chest, and you’re alright with that—in most ways. You’ve lived a full life, you’ve done so many things that you promised yourself you would—you’d married a beautiful, kind woman, and had two wonderful children—even if you’d outlived them by almost a decade. Tragedy happens to everyone—and the way you deal with it is how you can define yourself as a person. Your children had been bright spots in your life, little joys that you hadn’t realized you needed until they happened—your son was a soft heart like your wife, kind and good, and always looking out for others. And your daughter was a sharp set of eyes and fast pumping blood; she would forcibly change the world if it didn’t bend of its own volition.

They’ve all passed on, and at each funeral you promised them you’d be on your way— _soon, Ellie_ , you’d whispered when they lowered your wife into the cold ground. The grounds-men had taken ages to dig the grave—the ground hard and frozen from the blizzard the week prior. And not long after you’d cried quietly to yourself when you’d taken the plane ride over the border to the north—to the arrangements for your children, perished together in a fire that took nearly a block with it. You’d had shoulders to lean on—families mourning with you—but you’d promised them the same thing. _Soon, Cal; soon, Sammy_.

You’d gone home with a dark cloud over your head, to a shop your family loved, which you only tolerated—you were never a book learned man, you weren’t particularly invested in what could be learned between hard covers and soft feeling pages. But your wife was a complex book herself—she loved the creaking stairs in the back, and the tilted shelves just inside the windows. Your daughter’s school awards still hung in the office, and your son’s baseball trophies lined the shelves over the cash register. Stenciled beside the large sign— _the Bruised Apple_ —was a little mark that said, _family owned_. The pillar beside the basement stairs was a measurement of growth—Sam’s height, and Cal’s height, etched into the wood.

But they were all gone—and you were just a sad, lonely old man who didn’t know what to do about that. Percy had promised he’d buy the store, take proper care of it, and you’d be able to make good on those promises you’d made. _Soon_. You had every intent of joining your family.

And then there was a young girl—no more than twelve or thirteen, eyes bright as a candle, face drawn delicate and sad. She’d wandered in with a boy on her hip—no more than a toddler, if even that. She had a bag over her shoulder, scuffed and stuffed with what seemed to be all her worldly possessions—the types of things no one would carry with them everywhere, if they didn’t have to. She took out a book—torn and ruined at the binding, the pages faded and nearly wiped clean.

“I— _kao-rr up fardhogh_—this book—” She looked upset, like she’d practiced what to say, and lost it somewhere along the line in her mind—you understand her frustration; Eleanor had tried to teach you her native French, but you seemed to garble it up properly somewhere before it left your mouth.

“Why don’t you let me see that, kiddo?” She’d looked at you skeptically, same sharp eyes as your daughter, and she weighed you—no doubt about that—and then passed over her book. Careful, like it meant a lot to her, and you handled it just as carefully. You can never say what something means to someone, until they tell you. The book was _Peter Pan and Wendy_ —old, copyright around 1935. It was ruined in every way imaginable, the pictures bled together, the words were smudged and illegible. You knew you had a copy on one of the back shelves, up near the top of the children’s stories—there wasn’t much demand for impossibly out dated children’s book that had movie adaptions. “Yeah, I have a copy; way in the back.” You’d looked at her—the serious set of her face, like she was paying close attention to your words—so you made sure to talk slower, and articulate properly, like your brother said you’re incapable of. She focused on your lips, and when her brows furrowed, lips pressing tighter, almost going white—you repeated yourself until she gave a single, certain nod.

You’d hazarded an attempt—wrote the shelf number, and the placement on a small index card, and handed it toward her. The boy was standing on his own now, spinning contentedly in small circles, making what sounded like car noises. This little blonde thing, she glowered at the index card, and just when you’re about to take it back and go find the book yourself—she nodded firmly, and said something to the boy in that language—definitely not French, definitely not anything you recognized. She set off into the back, quick as an eastern wind—you stepped around the counter, and saw how she climbed the shelves like they were just steps. Hanging by two fingers, and then one as she trailed another across the bindings. She’d murmured the names to herself—butchering a good many of them—but eventually she’d returned with two books.

One was _Echo Boy_ , by R. Barre, and the other was _Peter_ _Pan_ , by J. M. Barrie—you had been able to see that, but she’d held them both. Like she didn’t wish to ask for assistance, didn’t want to ask which one was right—so you waited. You raised two stubborn children, and you had been the patient one—Eleanor had been a child herself in that regard, flitted off with them when the time came—but you? You were their foundation, their reminder that reality awaited. The girl sat on the floor, on the other side of the shop, and it wasn’t until closing that you watched how she walked to the back—put them both in their spots, and collected the boy—and left. It was the middle of February, and neither of them had coats—tee-shirts and thin denims, and you worried the whole night.

Nightmares twisted and turned, of little bodies found frozen together somewhere in the streets.

But she had been back the next day—bright eyed and strong. No worry for the cold, no fear of the dark; she simply climbed the shelf in the back and sat on the floor. Flipped through the two books, furrowed those little blonde brows and murmured to herself—you could hear her every so often, when you’d walk down another isle, and she’d stumble over a word. You’d correct her softly— _pretending; irritating; occasionally_ —she’d go quiet, and then you’d hear her wind-chime voice repeat. She usually got it right, but if she stumbled again, she’d wait—and when you repeated yourself, she’d follow suit.

And like the day before—when it was time to close, she put the books away, collected her boy, and left.

It went on for about two weeks, until she approached the register. Only one book in hand, she placed it gently on the counter; you got a proper look at her this time. Not flitting and side eyed—she was small for her age, it seemed, thin, and all elbows and knees—but there was a strength to her jaw, a weight to those blue eyes sitting just under the blades of her auburn bangs. You could tell she’d be blonde—the dark hair of a child who’d be lighter later in life—your son had been the same way, kept some of the red into his thirties.

“This one,” for the life of you, you couldn’t place her accent—curled at the edges, almost abrupt and improper—like it didn’t fit with the words she was saying. Like it didn’t _like_ English. She had conviction though, the nervous flicker of her eyes had worried you—street children tended to bolt if you tried to say anything to them, but this one seemed firm. Sturdy. She’d tried to pay you, and you declined, slipped the book into a bag and handed it over. She tried again; small hand holding crumpled bills—much more than the book was worth—but you declined.

“Do you have someplace to stay?”

Her brow furrowed, and you repeated yourself—slower, more articulated—and she seemed skeptical. Glanced at her boy like she was about to grab him and go. “I have a room; you can stay if you’d like. Much warmed than outside, I reckon.”

It hadn’t been instantaneous—but it was the first step in acquiring yourself a grandchild.

That first year was fickle and unsure—she’d flit in and out, but she’d always come back. Always return with the boy, and she’d give you bags of potato chips, or pounds of coffee. Like she didn’t understand currency, like she didn’t know what something was worth. Like she didn't know what you would want for your help; what the price. She started helping out around the shop—putting books away, ringing up customers once you let her watch you use the cash register. She was quick—intelligent, without fault—and it wasn’t long before you had practically nothing to do yourself. The boy—Clark, though she called him something else, something like _Cal_ , like your boy—would lumber through the place, usually causing trouble, but she minded him well enough.

Now, years later, she sits curled at your bedside—the ICU lights glaring harshly off the lenses of her glasses, throwing her face into shadow where she’s hunched over her notebook. One of those multiple subject ones that had the little folders. She’d been here since she left class four hours ago, making dutiful trips down the hall to the nurses’ station, and to the vending machine when they weren’t watching. She hasn’t moved in a while, and you’re worried about her developing a kink in her neck, but you know that isn’t possible—how you know, you wouldn’t be able to say. But Kara—she’s never so much as stubbed a toe in the near decade you’ve had her. _Hardy_ , you would’ve said before, but you know it goes beyond that.

She doesn’t hide it anymore, not like she used to, but there’s never any conversation about it—never any dialog acknowledging that an eighteen year old girl shouldn’t be able to move the pallet in the basement without a pallet-jack. It just gets folded in with the other truths that you’ve picked up over the years when it comes to Kara, and Clark.

“Grandpa,” she scolds, glancing up at you because you’d shifted too much, and the twinge in your chest makes you gasp. You asked her once if she had a grandfather—from wherever she’s from—and she’d said no. No one to replace, no one to forget. She had gained something when you asked, and it had been the brightest smile you’d seen to date. “You are supposed to be resting.” Closing the notebook in her lap, Kara uncurls and starts fixing your blankets—bringing them up to your chin, then remembering that it makes you feel claustrophobic, and then patting them gently against your chest. “Can I get you anything?”

“A hole in the head, and a handle of whiskey?”

She scowls, though her face is too sweet, and her eyes too kind—it does absolutely nothing. “How about some water? And it’s almost time for another pain killer; I can chase down the nurse.”

Patting her hand, you coax her into sitting down again—she is always sitting on the edge of her seat, ready to fly down the hall if it will help. But you have a feeling she knows—in the same way you do. You can feel it like a punctuation mark in your bones, a pause in your blood—how does it seem to her. This child-God who has chosen to tuck herself away into the dusty isles of books.

“Did you and that rabble-rouser decide what you’re doing?” She’d asked your opinion a few weeks back; glasses up on the crown of her head, palms rubbing at her eyes. She’d had soot on her cheek, and you made no mention of that vigilante that saved a family from a fire. Just rubbed at it until she ducked away and complained—you’d gotten a wet paper towel and wiped it clean.

“We filed yesterday,” she’s digging through her pocket, and you cough into the tissue she extends before you even begin to. Tucking it into your palm, as if she can’t see the red. There’s a moment, a pause, before Kara’s extending a piece of paper, eyes dark. It’s pressed with the state seal, and looks mighty official—K. A. Callaghan, and Maxwell J. Lorde IV, _filers_. Corporation name; _Lorde Technologies, Corp_. There’s an address at the cheaper end of the business district, and behind that is the business loan taken out. You whistle, because that is a healthy number of zeroes.

“You didn’t let him bully you, did you?” You check, though from the roll of her eyes that she tries to hide behind her glasses, you know she can stand her own ground.

“No, he didn’t bully me. I mean—he’s pretty insistent, but he’s—it’s a personality type. It doesn’t bother me.” She’s smiling, a tick to her lip, and then a full grin—like she doesn’t want to, but can’t help herself. She’s looking at you like she wants to ask you something, but she’s always had trouble asking—always had difficulty seeking help, instead of giving it.

“Well, in any case. I’m proud of you, kiddo.” You reach out and muss up her hair, ignoring the fact that she leans in close enough to allow you to do so—you can hardly move anymore, and she’s too damned accommodating. “You’re gonna change the world—I can see it now.” You’re smiling, and your jaw aches—it always aches—and the pressure behind your eyes is hard to ignore anymore. “Tell me how.”

She frowns, “What?”

“Tell me how you’re gonna change the world,” blinking, she’s kind of blurry, but not too bad, “I want to see it.”

“You will,” she promises, leaning forward until her chin is resting on the railing of your hospital bed, and her too-hot hands wrapped around yours. Kara doesn’t say anything for a while, and you know she has that look in her eye—dark, and far away—the kind you’d seen at war. In fellow soldiers, and the children you couldn’t help, the ones that got left behind—with their burned villages, and piles of dead. Those who had holes inside them that would never go away, regardless of how much love you filled them with—and damn if you didn’t try to fix that empty place in her heart.

“We’re going into communications—there’s so much out there that no one’s touching, frequencies and waves that just—drift through unnoticed.” She talking quietly, “I want people to be able to say _I love you_ from different sides of the galaxy; I can hear the empty places, and I’ll make it so you can hear them too.” You don’t know if she means you personally, or humanity as a whole. Tapping her hand, you nod, slightly, and encourage her to keep going.

“I just finished _Atlas_ _Shrugged_ ,” Kara goes on, “I want to build a train.” She talks for a while—filling the quiet around you, and you must fall asleep once or twice because you are suddenly in the middle of an explanation for an electric car, and a wireless network. She’s talking, and talking, and talking—and you know she’ll keep going until you stop her. Until you’ve gone cold, and your fingers slack.

“Kiddo,” you interrupt.

She goes quiet, blinking at you, and she’s a little clearer, even if her color has washed away—you know it’s your vision, but that’s alright. Your heart is sluggish and limping.

“If you were any of your cousins, I’d make you promise to be good.” You don’t just mean Clark—you mean your brother’s children, and grandchildren—the kids that needed no prompting to accept the unusual blonde into their family. Another person to celebrate life with. “But you’re as good as they come; knew that from the day I first saw you. You’d do anything for your boy, and you were nothing more than a kid yourself. That’s in your bones, you can’t unlearn that.”

She sniffs, and you chuck her chin with your finger, “None of that now,” you say, and she nods, but sniffles again.

“Forgive this old man a little advice, alright?” Kara’s nodding absurdly, up and down, her chin hitting your knuckles with each pass, and you stop her with only the slightest shift—holding her chin, so that she’s looking at you properly. She’s good—this girl of yours—best there’s been, too sweet for this world she’s found herself in. “You’re gonna get mad—you have that in you too, I’ve seen it. And you can’t swallow that down forever—I’ve seen boys do it until they’re men, and it eats them alive inside. Alright? It chews on them until they can’t right recognize themselves, and then they don’t know what to do.”

You don’t want that for her—don’t want her to see some warped version of herself because she’s got something of a temper. You see it boiling, a reflection of your own youth—after the war, before Eleanor.

“You keep it in line, I’ve seen you choke it back—but there’s gonna come a time when that little voice inside has got nothing to say, nothing to justify not taking someone’s head off their shoulders.” You’re getting raspy, and you want to cough, but you want to finish, “Just remember; it’s easy to be angry, but to direct that anger? Right amount, at the right person, in the right way? That’s hard.” For so long you’d been angry at the wrong people, about the wrong things—your parents, then the government, then the soldiers on the other side, then the oblivious people back home. It was an endless loop you couldn’t find an end to—until Eleanor made you realize you weren’t angry—you were sad, and sometimes it’s easier to mask it with rage.

“What if—what if that isn’t enough?”

“Then you own it. You’re gonna make mistakes, kiddo, everyone does. It’s what makes us human.” You smile, “Even you.”

Kara hesitates not at all, “The truth is—,”

“The truth is it doesn’t matter,” you interrupt, because—it doesn’t. “You could damn well be the devil himself, and it wouldn’t change a damned thing. You, Kara—are a Callaghan, doesn’t make you any less the person you were before, but it damn well makes you who you are now. We’re all made of pieces, kiddo—all sizes and kinds, and the whole picture? It’s a lot more complicated than people like to remember. So a few of your pieces may be a little hard to translate—the people that matter, won’t mind.”

She looks down, and you see how she deflates a little—it’s in the shoulders, how she folds in on herself, like it makes her smaller.

“That girl of yours? She seems like the type that picks up on languages—”

She laughs, brightening at the mere mention of Catherine Grant, “Cat? Oh no, she’s terrible at languages.”

“Metaphorically, kid. Jesus, I was trying to be deep, and you’re ruining it.”

But you’re smiling, and she’s smiling, and you wished this could be it. That the hard stuff after—for her, not you, dying is pretty easy on the one kicking the bucket—didn’t have to happen, that she could go on smiling and add nothing to that empty place inside, where the years you don’t know about sit like stones.

“I saw those magazines you had the other day,” you hint, and Kara gets the wide eyed look you hope she grows out of, because she won’t be able to keep much a secret is she flounders at the briefest mention of something. “You planning something you may have forgotten to mention?”

“I—no—I’m not—planning—well, maybe—I want to—but I wouldn’t. I don’t even know—,” and you can only think of how she’d stumbled over asking you what to do about asking this girl out. “I’m thinking about it. The future. Maybe.”

You smile, “Tell me.”

Because you’re going to miss so many important moments in her life—things that you know will define generations, and humanity as a whole. You have a person capable of that kind of change, twiddling her thumbs beside your bed, and that’s how you know she’ll do right by it. She doesn’t want it, which means she should have it.

“I got the magazine in the mail, and I was just looking, but I—” She’s pulling something out of her bag, it’s crumpled, and ear marked, and when she presents it—they’re all gorgeous rings. Diamonds, and gold, and colored gems, and Kara’s looking at you like her little heart might explode—and you can only smile. A tired, loving smile, because this girl—she doesn’t realize how precious she is.

“How about I do you one better?” Lifting a tired hand to paw at your necklace, the one you keep below your shirt, pressed against your heart—the chain loops over your head, and then slips free, and you dangle them in front of her. Three rings—a bridal set, and your own wedding ring. You’d used much of a year’s pay to buy the rings. Eleanor had gasped at their size, hardly concerned with something like that herself—but it was a statement to you. These clear little rocks—what exactly that statement is anymore, you’re long to forget.

Maybe that she was worth it.

“Mister Callaghan,” Kara murmurs in something like awe, fingering the rings, balancing them on her fingertip.

“Haven’t been that to you in years, kiddo.”

She blinks, very clearly crying, and trying hard not to—and then you suddenly have arms full of teenage girl. She’s holding herself carefully, but her face is tucked into your neck, and her sniffles are loud in your ears—and you can only raise your hands high enough to touch her elbows. “There, there,” you sooth, pressing your cheek against hers, and then struggling that last few inches, to loop the chain around her neck, to settle beside the one she never takes off. The one she mentioned once—years ago—was from her mother.

“She’ll say yes, whenever you ask—would be a fool not to.” Kara’s leaning back, and she’s blotchy, and her blue eyes shimmer, and you feel lighter somehow—like things have just begun to drift away. Everything reverberates in your skull, like you’re hearing an echo, and that’s—that’s how you know. Your pulse lives in your jaw, and your lungs rattle like a toddler’s toy.

“Hey, kiddo, why don’t you go chase me down that nurse? Think they forgot about me,” you have to remind her now, while she’s shuffling through things—before she can focus and realize. But she’s always too helpful, too quick to do as asked. She presses a kiss to your cheek and is already stepping away, rubbing at her cheeks with the back of her hand, and clearing her voice.

“Sure thing, grandpa.”

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear the door open, “Love you, kiddo.”

The hinges groan while it begins to drift shut, her words drifting toward you in the dark while you listen to her steps chase down the hall. Everything echoes, and drones, pulsing in your bones, but you can’t really feel it anymore. It’s a strange sensation, but you’re glad to hear her before you go.

“Love you too.”


	23. snap shot 23. ( 15, 27, 29 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**. _You could carry this planet upon your shoulders, could flatten cities, and conquer continents. But she consumes you; she brings you to your knees without any thought or effort. People put too much thought behind "powerful", as if it mattered what you could do, when you're wrapped like a red cord around her finger._ // Prompt by theeggplantavenger.

* * *

The windows are never closed here in the summer; the curtains are thrown back and the breeze from the beach falls in cool and salty—it fills your nose, drapes itself over your skin, and saturates your clothes. The refreshing scent lingers inside you like a reminder that you weren’t in the high rise in National City—yours, or Cat’s—but that you’d taken the time to go to the edges of the city limits. To where the houses are further apart, and the gates nearly a miles from the front door—there’s almost no noise pollution here, just the comforting sound of waves, and the occasional gull skimming the surface of the ocean.

Cat had led you through the front door with fingers curled around yours, looking at you with a concern that seemed to linger in her eyes despite how her lips were curled into the smallest smile. She’d asked you if you were alright every fifteen minutes, but you’d been fairly unresponsive—jerky mechanical nods, and tightly pressed lips. There had been no struggle when she pulled you down the hall, and up the stairs to the master bedroom—shucking the jacket off your shoulders, and unbuttoning the clasp to your pants. It was soft, sweet—tender—and she was handing you like you might break at any moment. One rough touch, and you’ll shatter in front of her without warning.

“We’ll go to sleep,” she’d murmured, nose tucked against your neck while your hands settled thoughtlessly on her hips, “We’ll talk in the morning.” She knew you needed time to process—to think—to sort all the things you feel into categories and lists. Pros and cons. And you know she’s scared—you can hear it in the jack rabbit beat of her heart, and the sharp twist to her scent—you don’t like how Cat smells when she’s scared. Bitter, and metallic, and wrong—you want to bundle her against you and sooth away that fear, but it’s abstract and unable to be smoothed.

She’s afraid how you’ll react—when you finally do.

It can’t be more than five or six in the morning, the sun just beginning to peak out from below the horizon, landing hot and bright on your half exposed back—the tank top you’d been wearing under your work clothes having rucked up in the night, snagging just below your breasts in the front. The yellow sun slinks into your skin, sinking into your very cells until you’re vibrating with the life it’s forcing into you. Better than any cup of coffee. You struggle up from under the black weight of your dreamless sleep, and the only thing that exists is the weight of the sun at your back, and the press of a body to your front.

Cat Grant has curled into your body at some point in the night—you’d gone to sleep on opposite edges of the bed, but in all honestly you both know how you gravitate toward each other once unconscious. Her legs are tangled through yours, and your nose is tucked to the short soft hairs behind her ear—right where her scent is strongest. Not the cedar and lavender shampoo she’s been using recently—or the spice of her perfume—but the natural scent of her skin below that. Soothing, and warm, and addicting. Filling your lungs instinctively, you leave a little press of lips there—until you realize her scent is different.

Only slightly, and you can only notice it now because you’re so close—but it’s unmistakable. Like autumn, and sunlight, and afternoons—you feel something constrict in your chest, twisting tighter and tighter until you exhale. You hadn’t been able to notice her pregnancy before now—you’d had only her words, heavy with tears, thick with fear, but you—you didn’t think she’d lie, not about something like this, but you hadn’t _known_.

But now there’s no mistaking it.

You’re still half asleep when your ears settle on the beat of Cat’s heart—sluggish and unaware. Thumping along sedately while you nose closer to her jaw—her skin is sleep warm, but pebbles where the breeze brushes over her. You kiss them away, lulled by this new scent—this warmth in your chest, and heaviness in your limbs. An addiction you weren’t aware you had until it was in your very veins, pumping through you and lingering in your bones. She murmurs, lifting a limp hand to shove at you when you kiss the ticklish spot below her jaw, but that very same hand is quickly curling into your hair and pressing you closer when you part lips and press teeth gently into the junction of where her neck and shoulder meet.

“Darling,” her voice is raspy, and it sends a shiver down your spine, her lips part like she might have something else to say—but her eyes never open, and her hand never leaves your hair.

“You smell different,” you whisper into her warm skin, pressing another kiss to her shoulder, along her collarbone, “Warmer—sweeter.” You couldn’t put into words how her very essence is crawling inside you and settling somewhere primal, and inhuman, in your brain. Someplace truly alien, because there was no one from Krypton to explain how your skin plucked and your heart tripped. How Cat became abstract and addicting, more so than because she is simply the girl you love—but beyond that. _More_ than that. These thoughts seem to bypass your brain and live in your fingers—where you knead the skin at her hip, smoothing down the outside of her thigh until she rolls onto her back; you hovering half over her from the side.

“Kara,” you don’t catch how her eyes open, her hand curling along your cheek, smoothing along the socket of your eye, up to your tucked brow. You’re too busy nuzzling the hollow at the front of her throat, testing the pliant skin there with your teeth; vulnerable and soft. _Yours_. “Hey, lovely, look at me a second.” Like her words have some type of tether to your actions, a string laced down your spine, from the top of your head, to the tips of your toes. Her eyes are hazy and green, unfocused and bright—little flecks of the sunrise snared in the color, setting them ablaze.

Cat’s smoothing hands down your cheeks, looking for something in your eyes; eyes flickering back and forth, up the line of your nose, and down to rest on your lips—you're possessed, inhaling deep lungful of her impossibly sweeter scent, and she’s just—smiling at you. You know you should really understand what she’s smiling about, it lingers somewhere in your mind, but that place is dark and tucked away in lieu of this instinctive need to be closer. Maybe it is the hot seed of jealousy you pretend you don’t feel, the one that lingers in your veins like a smoldering coal—igniting your blood, making it rush hot and vicious through you.

Your face still clasped between her palms, you cast out the world, throw its sound and light, and noise away until there is only Cat Grant. Like walking down a tunnel, focusing on the light at the end—a bright spot in the dark. Everything that she _is_ consumes you, and you’re drowning—a willing sacrifice, inhaling water deep. _Tha-tha,_ you don’t know what the sound is—chasing Cat’s heartbeat like a song—her’s drums strong and sure in your jaw where her thumbs are pressed. _Thump thump, tha-thump thump, tha-tha-thump thump._ Closing your eyes, and stopping your breath—you cast out even her scent and eyes. Drifting out of her hold and lower until you can feel the sleep warmth of her stomach through her shirt. Thin cotton the only thing separating you from her skin.

_Tha-tha thump, tha-thump thump, tha-thump thump._

It is soft, and quick, and irregular—missing every sixth beat like it forgot what it was supposed to be doing. Pushing her shirt up until it bunch under her breasts you press your lips to the soft curve of her belly. The very fine blonde hairs tickle your nose as you press closer. _Tha-thump_. Even here you cannot ignore Cat’s heart—but the faint echo, the soft little stutter is originating right under your lips. You can feel the buzz faintly, hypersensitive since you’d shut out most of the world. You exist here, with Cat’s heartbeat mingling with that of the baby. You know—logically—that it isn’t much more than a cluster of cells, splitting rapidly, but that logical part of you is still asleep. Still tucked away for the night weighing pros and cons.

“I can hear the baby’s heart,” you slur, lips warm and mouthing kisses against Cat’s stomach, both of her hands have tangled into your hair, and her nails scratch tenderly at your scalp. Some little part of you that knows better says this shouldn’t be happening, that you’d managed so well to be friend, and confidant, and protector—but intimacy happened too easily between you. So you encouraged her to date, set her up with eligible men who you know she’ll hate—because you don’t want to _lose_ her. She gripes, and complains, and when she shows up at your apartment at midnight in a little black dress, dangling heels from her fingers, you act like you hadn’t been waiting.

“I didn’t—it hasn’t been that long.” But she’s smiling wide, and she’s _beautiful_. No one radiates happiness like Catherine Grant—it lives just under her skin like a secret, spilling like light through her pores. Her fingers are scrunching a little tighter in your hair unconsciously, and you nip at her belly button, something low in your stomach igniting when she releases a tiny breathless whimper, holding tighter yet and scratching encouragingly behind your ear. The baby’s heartbeat is drumming against your chin where you have it resting on her stomach, looking up beyond the rucked up fabric of her shirt to wide impossibly dark green eyes. Landscapes and hurricanes clambering in that shade of green, and you don’t want to pretend right now that you aren’t absolutely, irrevocably in love with her.

You can see in the bow of her soft lips that she isn’t thinking about what will happen tomorrow, or the day after—the lines drawn in the sand that she’s too stubborn, and you’re too afraid, of erasing. She’s tugging you up her body, and you happily press her into the mattress with your weight, settling in the cradle of her hips, the barest scrape of lace the only thing keeping her center from pressing into the ridges of your stomach. Your fingers are tapping the rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat—a quick flurry of your fingertip—and her eyes are squinting in happiness, sparkling and hazy both, somehow.

Your limbs are tangled with her with how you’re leaning, rocking your hips against her, catching the plaintive moan slipping from her lips until you’re rolling on your side, and taking her with you. Her hands press against your sternum when she sits astride your stomach, hair a messy golden halo around her eyes, eyes dark and pupils blown. Nails digging hard into your skin—hard enough that you can feel it, even if no mark will be left. There is nothing sexier than Cat looking down like she might very well devour you; swallow you whole and keep all of you for herself. You want to tell her that she has you, she’s _always_ had you, but your words are thick, and unwieldy on your tongue.

Your hands grip her thighs, leaving faint red trails with your nails while you move to grip her thighs and sit up until she’s settled in your lap. You twine together, her ankles digging into your lower back, her hands pushing down between you until she’s inside your underwear and palming you possessively. You might whimper _yours_ into her mouth, but you can’t focus on anything other than how her fingers dance through your wetness, sliding and pressing, playing you easy as any instrument.

You lighten your hold when she murmurs, “Kara, love,” in your ear like a reminder, coaxing a finger across your knuckles until you’re only palming her hips; careful of your strength.

The tight circles she’s rubbing are catching reedy little whines that hiss from your throat, each one bleeding into the next. You find her mouth—messy, desperate—and don’t even flinch when teeth click, and a lip is caught. Her heart beat is thundering inside your jaw, fast and sure, and you’re gasping half-hitched versions of her name into her mouth. Sharing hot air as she coaxes you further, rocking against the back of her own hand, making little involuntary sounds.

“Ca—Ca—,” you aren’t breathing out, simply filling your chest with more, and more, and more, air until the tension in your muscles and bone bleed away with a shudder. You come with her name on your tongue—heavy, and loud, and spilling through every part of you; she follows you soon after, gasping against your collarbones when she rocks just right against your stomach.

Her weight is negligible, draped over you, face tucked into the slick curve of where your neck meets your shoulder, her hot breath fanning out against your collarbones. Cat’s hand has found its way under your shirt that is hardly on at all—palm warm against your breast, but you know she’s really tracking the heavy beat of your heart. How it thumps against her palm—alien, and strong—she’s always liked how your heart beats, even before she knew what it was exactly.

“You’re having a baby,” the silence doesn’t snap around your words, your voice is quiet, and soft, and raspy at the edges. Cat stirs, but only kisses your shoulder, and humming against your skin. Now that you’re aware of the differences, you can’t ignore them—the baby’s heart drums where her stomach presses against yours, her scent—warmer, sweeter—fills your lungs, and she bleeds warmth like she never has before.

You want to say you’ll be there, if she’ll have you—when she’s dragged her stubborn reasoning back around her shoulders, and stiffened her jaw. When she looks at the world like a battle to be won—you want to say you’re not going anywhere. That you don’t care about labels, and technicalities; that having even _some_ of her makes you happier than you’ll ever be without her. Some nights, you feel like love is a condition—some state you’d happened into, without being aware. Something that will never change, and when you think that feels like a weight you want lifted—she looks at you with tender eyes, and holds you close because you _need_ the contact.

“You’ll be here?” It is almost silent, utterly quiet against your neck, and her heart thumps quicker, jumping harshly in her chest. “You’ll stay?”

Smiling at oblivion should never feel so wonderful. Wrapping arms around her, holding her close until you can’t feel where she begins, and you end. Just the soothing tap of a baby’s heart between you. “Of course, _zrhueiao_.” Tucking your nose into her golden curls, breathing her scent deep, and letting it settle in your very cells. “Until the stars go dark.” You promise.


	24. snap shot 24. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. _Time passes like snap shots you don't remember taking from some trip years ago; the smiles are caught forever more, but you can no longer remember what had made you laugh. What had made you cry. Like your feelings have been laminated and preserved inside you. No, you don't suppose that's right. Kara; well, you've always felt Kara._

* * *

There’s a power in walking through a room of downturned eyes; they all instinctively lower their chin and stare through their screens like salvation could be found on the other side. The screens around the room were plastered with the news surrounding Metropolis—it was being besieged by aliens, as seemed the be the bi-weekly problem—but these were giving Superman a run for his money—you’d been watching the screens in the conference room on the forty-seventh floor. The accountants had been going over fiscal year evaluations, and percentages up, and area of concern—and you heard probably every fifth word, and that is being generous.

You’d been too concerned with watching Clark get punched through store fronts, and down deserted streets—there was no definitive shot of what exactly was doing the damage. After the first few moments, they shot out of the center of the city and went in to the sleepier areas to the west. Your phone was in your hand before you could even reasonably understand that he wouldn’t be able to answer, but you’d almost lower yourself to texting, or _calling_ —god forbid—Lois. You know Clark—being the damned idiot that he is—would tell you not to worry, that he has it all under control.

But it doesn’t look like it.

So you make another call.

“Perry, would you thank your camera crews for me,” you begin the conversation without any greeting or announcement of who it is—he should know. And based upon the inhalation on his end, he’s well aware.

Slapping a palm against the frosted glass door to your office, you turn toward the bar on the side, pouring yourself a generous amount of bourbon, before plucking it up with your fingertips and keeping your stride toward the conference room behind your office. Much smaller than the one downstairs—and the three, two floors below that one, and the six, twenty floor below that one. You don’t think you’d ever even been in those; who’s been having conferences in them? There must be someone who knows.

Regardless.

“While I know this is a disparaging comment,” Perry is how you like him best—resigned—and you can hear how he covers his mouth piece and yells something across the vaguely organized chaos that is the Daily Planet. You’d been a big part of that chaos when you’d finally made it to a desk—after your column, and before Iraq. Perry comes back on the phone, a little out of breath, and you want to make _another_ comment about smoking so many cigars, “I haven’t exactly pieced together why it is disparaging.”

Sitting in the large backed chair on the end of the long table, there’s no glass walls here, no eyes taking tentative glances in. Smacking at buttons on the remote a few times until the curved television on the wall goes through an inordinate amount of _input_ screens, and then the news coverage of Metropolis is up on the screen. A slash of lasers bisect the sky, and then into a hillside—thankfully void of people.

“Well,” you intone, “Any concern I may have had about epilepsy has been handedly rectified by your cameraman.” The camera swings upward once again, easily five seconds behind the blur of red and blur that is Clark—the sun glaring into the screen for a moment, before you had the clear view of an empty green field. There was specks clashing in the distance, but it was too out of focus.

“Listen, Grant.” He has that tone that says he’s being serious, that this is a line they will step back from, and you can appreciate that. You afford him this courtesy, because he reflects it back to you in kind. “The big guy’s having trouble with this one—they came out of nowhere. Don’t seem too concerned with much more than knocking him around like a pin ball. Haven’t seen anything like it—,”

You have; he has too.

He finishes his thought in a rasp, “—not since Doomsday, at least.” The creature that had carved through National City like a buzz saw; had demolished the city center with little more effort than it took a child to stomp on a sand castle. Watching as Clark snaps past the sound barrier, a clap of sound filtering behind him, his opponent does the same, but it sent spinning into the lake behind them. There’s two more shadows, flickering through the gaps in the buildings, moving away from the hero, and closer to the city again.

There’s a strange stillness that flickers over the city, the shadows going higher, and higher, and higher until they’re just smudges against the afternoon. Clark bolts after them, a spot of color to match them—and they just remain. The minutes tick by, and Perry is breathing deeply and purposely in your ear—and you’re quiet, because your oldest boy is outnumbered four to one, and it hadn’t been going too well for him. He would fight until he couldn’t anymore—he got that from his damned cousin—and it left you on the edge of your chair. Watching as shadows conversed.

You know Carter is at school, so he isn’t watching this, he won’t know until after he gets home, and he’ll look at you with quiet blue eyes that always seem to wonder who isn’t coming home next. You blame his father, the flickering disappointment he is—a man without malice, simply too involved with himself—but you know the deeper wound was the woman who would never come home. He’d hear about how Superman limped and staggered, and he’ll watch you with eyes asking _him too_ , and you’ll have no answer. You’ll only be able to bundle him close, and tell him Clark—as stupid as he is—is made of tougher stuff than that. Nothing to do with alien genetics, and bulletproof skin—he was raised right, wasn’t he?

The dark marks drift further apart, and then—vanish.

“What just happened?” Perry exhales, clearly watching the same feed—of Superman drifting lower, and lower, and lower, until the camera could make out the smudges of dirt on his cheeks, and the blood dripping from his nostril. It was dashed away by a quick hand, but no award winning smile could do anything about the dent made today.

“Nothing good.” You reply, while hanging up without prompt, immediately dialing Clark’s number and watching as Superman touches his ear, already making a face.

“Cat!” he chirps, while drifting in place, “I was just about to call you. Work’s crazy.”

“I’m watching you, heathen; don’t think I didn’t see that grimace.” You chide, and lean forward, really looking at him now—nothing to do with the hero, everything to do with the boy you helped raise. “What was that?”

“I have no idea; they seemed like they were _looking_ for me. Seemed pretty intent on putting me into the ground as many times as they could.” Frowning, you lean back in your chair, tipping some of the bourbon back with a quick swallow, before exhaling through your nose.

“Aliens?”

“Definitely. No chance those guys were meta-humans.” While you weren’t the keenest on the name, there was no question that more, and more, were clambering up from the dark hole they were hidden in. “Actually, it was weird.”

You don’t like how he’s trailing off, his voice dipping low and away.

“Weird how? Besides the beating you senseless part,” you snipe to mask your worry, because watching him flounder was like watching the _Spectre_ all those years ago.

“They were—they were speaking Kryptonese.” Your blood runs cold, and your heart hammers, you’re standing before you can even process that you’ve tossed back the rest of your drink. It burns, and all the conflicting feelings in your chest chase through you with a kind of dread you don’t experience often.

“Clark, you spoke to them—at the end. What did they want?” That had to be what it was, that had to be why they simply flitted off into the afternoon without any more of a fight.

“The leader, he wasn’t really a chatty guy, real stern face.” Clark grouses, and you can simply tell by his tone that he’s found someplace to change—back in his cheap shirt and half-mast tie. “He just said I wasn’t who he was looking for, and took off.” Who could they be looking for? Clark’s still talking in your ear, but you’ve walked out of the small backroom and into your office proper. The glass door is still shut, and you can hardly make out the clacking sounds of decent productivity—the balcony door is open and—

There’s a woman standing on your balcony.

She’s facing away from you, hands spread wide on the wall, and there’s no obvious sign that she’s aware you are watching her. She’s about average height, and there’s something in the way she’s standing that keeps your attention. She’s wearing dark pressed slacks that look like they’re off a Target hanger, but they fit well enough, and if she wasn’t blatantly infringing on your space, you’d probably let it slide. The white shirt is rumpled and tucked improperly, and that is simply unacceptable.

“Unless I’m interrupting some poorly planned suicide attempt,” you drawl, listening to how Clark quiets on the phone, and mumbles something like, _come on, cat_ , and you’re not finished. “Which might seem much more plausible after I learn an approximation of your name, fire you, and then promptly forget said name—”

Whatever the end of that thought is swallowed because the woman whips around quicker than you can see—one second she’s out on the balcony, then she’s suddenly half a foot in front of you. Her eyes are green—or gray—some mix of the two, and she’s looking at you with recognition. Her hair is dark, tangled gracefully around her face—which is all royal slopes. Cheekbones and nose, lips and chin. She’s beautiful, and even with your heart tripping like a child, you can appreciate that. There’s something off, and yet familiar. And you sure as hell know it isn’t that gaudy white streak in her hair.

“I’m hazarding a guess that you don’t work for me.” Tone flat, to make up for your jack rabbit heart.

“Cat?” Clark’s asking, his tone pitched low—serious, and you don’t like that he’s picked that up from Perry, you’re going to have to talk to him about that. “Cat? What’s going on?” The woman’s brows furrow, eyes tightening for a moment before she leans forward, if that was even possible, and it takes everything in you to not lean away. To not concede ground.

“Cat?” Her accent is unusual, and you recognize it instantly, because your youngest son is constantly trying to perfect his pronunciation—even without the help of the only native speaker you’ve known. “Catherine Grant?” But no one has ever said your name like that—not even Kara—and it seems wrong, and improper, and you don’t want to hear it again from this woman’s lips. Because it isn’t who should be saying it, and it hits you right in that empty place in your chest. Like an anvil sitting on your heart.

“Only two people call me by my full name,” you growl, stepping forward, and when she takes a step back, not seeming to mind herself, you feel a thrill—though you understand this woman could probably smash you into human flavored jelly. “You are neither one of them.”

Clark’s still talking in your ear, and the howl of wind lets you know he’s flying—probably the few thousand miles from Metropolis to National City. And you want to tell him to stay away, to not risk himself—to get Carter and go far away. But you don’t want to give this woman anything, and you know Clark won’t listen to any word of caution coming out of your mouth.

“You’re coming with me,” she isn’t asking, and she isn’t happy—there’s a dark dangerous tilt to her expression, and you know this isn’t some docile martian like the two you’d adopted almost thirty years ago. Her shoulders are set, and her jaw clenched. Her hand has settled on your upper arm, and her fingers clench with just enough warning that you can feel that inhuman strength you know she’ll possess.

“We haven’t time for this nonsense,” she is harsh, and enthralling, “Kara needs you.”


	25. snap shot 25. ( 15, 27, 29 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _Some people defy definition, and you consider yourself lucky to have such a person in your life. Sometimes you label her in your mind, with little things that never seem to do her justice. But in the end, you're a coward, because they don't make the trip past your lips. You trust too much in what isn't said, in her belief that she speaks you fluently, just like she does her starbound language._

* * *

Kassidy O’Doherty was the jet setting agent to the East coast’s biggest public relations firm—he could count on one hand the people who were higher than him on the chain of command, and knew how to keep all of them happy. With dark hair, and dazzling blue eyes, it wasn’t hard to believe that he’d caught your attention—you’d met him a number of times over the years, rolling your eyes at his over-whitened teeth and tweezed eyebrows. He tried too hard to make people like him, and while it usually succeeded for him, it was that exertion of effort that had always turned you away from him when he asked you out. “Come on, Grant,” he’d leer, in that too obvious way that just made you roll your eyes harder, he was a harmless flirt that had no shame of having his advances buffed, “Aren’t you curious?”

You weren’t, but then Kara had finally relented and gone on a date with one of the anthropologists at the National City museum, and you’d been unable to focus for the entire two months they went out. No, it wasn’t logical, no it wasn’t fair—to anyone involved—and when you ran into him again at the Lorde Technologies gala, Kara across the room struggling through the laser pointed argument of nerds and their ancestries, and you’d caved. Slipping your arm through his and stationing yourself at the bar for most of the night—he was charming, and snide, and too much like yourself to justify anything more than the night.

Or maybe a week; you’ve always had a certain narcissism. It was like dating a more pompous version of yourself, with—surprisingly—better taste in shoes, and worse taste in wine.

That month—however—had ended with him giving you a smile and a wave goodbye at the airport while you went to Paris, and he went to Washington DC. “See you around, Grant,” he’d grinned, swerving his practical little suitcase to a stop, and unshouldering your bag, that he’d been carrying. “Go talk to idiots about floral patterns, and seasonal colors.” You’d smacked him—hard—in the shoulder, and muttered how it wasn’t a fashion meeting, and he’d laughed, and left.

It had also ended with you unknowingly pregnant from a night of _maybe_ too much partaking in tequila, and too many “adult” games of Trivial Pursuit. You’d lost, miserably, because both you and Kassidy were hopeless with history, and science, and the team you’d been playing had been—well, Kara and an anthropologist. That damned alien brain was something to behold, and Kassidy had escorted you home a little clobbered in the ego—you’d been pretty used to losing trivia games and had taken your tequila shots like a champ, until the winners had taken pity on your team and called it a night.

Losers had to comfort themselves somehow, right? (Especially when you thought about what winners might do once they got home.)

Now, six months later, he’s the reason your ankles are swollen, and your back hurts, and you’re always hungry, and that the sun hurts your eyes, and that your hair is greasy, and—there are other things, but you’re tired of keeping lists of his utter incompetence, and he’s only in town for a few more hours, and you need to make him properly regret his life choices. All of them—you might call his mother and make her regret her choices as well. Asking her to kill her son now, would that be considered  _extremely_ late term abortion?

“Aren’t pregnant women not supposed to eat fish?” He asks after a sip of water—he’d ordered wine, until you’d taken the glass and dumped it into the vase in the middle of the table, and the waitress had nervously asked if he wanted another. He didn’t. “I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re an idiot,” you reply sweetly, while popping another piece of sushi into your mouth.

“I’m pretty sure you’re fucking immature,” he returns, and reaches over to take something off your plate, and you stab him with a single chop stick. “And fucking savage—were you raised by Goddamn wolves?”

“Satan incarnate,” you supply, while rolling your eyes, and putting one of your delicious morsels on his plate, ignoring his smile. You just didn’t want his damned hands anywhere near you—or your food.

“Well that explains the glaring, and general derision.”

He continues, “But, no, seriously—the fish thing. I’ve read that.” You roll your eyes and stretch your back, and he mimics you, like that will somehow get him out of range for this argument.

“Were you even at that appointment? Because I’m pretty sure the doctor explained it—I even had him use small words so you’d understand.”

Kassidy frowns, and you’re struck by how young he is—not that you aren’t, you’re actually younger—but it’s in his mannerisms. The way he looks off to the side and hunches his shoulders when he thinks no one is looking—he’s too selfish to want children, too self-involved. Didn’t want to stop the life he had—the different continent every quarter, galas and no strings. And when you’d told him you had no such devises on him, he had tried to be the good guy—tried, because Kassidy was only ever a decent guy. Whenever he’s in North America he tries to stop by—and he’d brought up the idea of getting married once or twice, and you’d both looked equally as appalled by the idea.

You suppose you’re friends. Maybe.

“I really hope our son takes after me,” you gripe, after having explain to him the difference between oily fish and non-oily fish. And which ones were alright, and good sources of protein. _Son_. You’d found out the baby’s gender today, and it still sent a thrill through you.

“You don’t want him to get anything from me?” He’s grinning, and leaning forward, and his stupid dimpled chin is sitting in his hand. You consider him a long moment, let him just wait—and wait—and wait—before sighing and conceding.

“Your hair, I suppose. It’s thick, and your father has very few grays.” He just keeps grinning, and you roll your eyes, pretending you’re eating alone for the next half hour, until he’s cut through your silence with snide comments about the people sitting in the park outside the restaurant’s window. You ignore him for five whole comments, until one particularly garish individual walks by, and you both snort in disgust.

Later that afternoon, when he walks you to the door of your apartment, your purse in his hand, his suitcase over his shoulder, telling you about the corporate executive that had gotten caught with an intern in the copy machine, because the prints had been forwarded to corporate, you forget your supposed to be disliking him because that is just _perfect_. When you’re standing outside, you snap irritably for your purse which he hands over with a pursed brow—you dig for a moment before unearthing a sonogram from the few you had printed, and handed it over.

“Please try not to be insufferable about this,” you intone when his eyes brighten and his mouth turns up into a smile. Looking at the sonogram he had already seen at the doctor’s office.

“We’re gonna make a fucking great kid, right?” He asks, and you see that nervous little twitch in his cheek you try to ignore. “I mean; I’m giving the handsome genetics, and you’re gonna be a great mom, right? I mean—Satan incarnate aside, and Callaghan won’t let you be a bitch.” He’s babbling, and means well—and usually he actually means it when he calls you a bitch, so this is just pathetic.

He’d taken to Kara as your better half pretty well—it had been something of a surprise to him when you’d called him out of the blue to inform him that you had a situation you’d have to speak to him about. He’d joked, “What’re you pregnant?” and the silence had been enough to make him assure you that he’d find a flight to National City as soon as possible. Kara had met him at the airport, and you had no idea what had transpired in the following four hours—other than knowing it does not take four hours to get to mid-town from the air-port.

Neither one of them have ever elaborated.

“I’m going to take all that in the vein it was intended, and say have a nice flight,” you present a cheek, and he exhales in relief while pressing a kiss there. You watch him walk down the hall without rolling your eyes, ignoring the _tell Callaghan bye_ hollered after you, and open the door to your apartment. None of the lights are on, but all of the windows are open, letting in a ridiculous amount of natural light. You suppose you should really get some kind of paintings for the walls, because they just look tall and white and empty. Huffing out through your nose, you leave your purse on the couch and pull out your mobile, shooting a message to Kara because you haven’t heard from her all day, and you know she’d had some kind of investor meeting with Maxwell across the country. She hated having to do meetings, not realizing how utterly charming she was capable of being without effort.

 **Cat** : Just got back from the appointment, Kass is off to Alberta. Asshole says bye.

Leaving it on the counter, and opening the fridge for some kind of juice—probably apple because you could at least pour it into a tumbler and pretend it was bourbon. You expect her to reply in a few minutes, but instead of the chirp of your mobile, it’s a voice from the end of the hall.

“Down here, _zrhueiao_.” She calls, and it really does echo off all the empty walls. You smile because you weren’t sure if you’d be able to see her today, but it didn’t seem to matter that her meeting was in New York City—being a super powered alien seemed to have perks you really were beginning to love. Rubbing your back, and using your heel to knock off either of your shoes, and leaving them uncharacteristically in the middle of the hall. You check your room first—pushing the door open and finding the same thing as the living room. Windows all open, and empty. The two “guest” rooms that Clark and Kara stay in—though she stayed in yours just as often—were both in the same state, which left the one at the end of the hall—what you had started calling the nursery.

Ironically, it had been your mother who had first brought up what you were going to do for the baby’s room—it was like the whole thing had slipped your mind—which had then sent you into a panicked spiral of concerns and catalogs, and for two weeks no one had been able to look you in the eye without flinching. Eventually, it had all begun to come together—dark colored woods, hypoallergenic fabrics, and some neutral color. You were going to have a professional do it, but Clark had cancelled the appointment and said that it was already being taken care of. Which had started the weekend of _Kryptonians v. baby crib_. You’ve never heard Kara curse as much as she had those few days.

After the furniture had been put together, and you’d been assured that it wouldn’t fall apart, the white walls had really seemed glaringly out of place, which Kara had promised she’d take care of. After you had said _no_ pink, _no_ blue, and nothing _cutesy_. Which had all been taken with firm nods of understanding. She hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and you hadn’t brought it up since. Pushing the door open with two fingers, you’re talking before you can see her, “You didn’t have to fly back tonight, and you know Marion won’t forgive you if you leave her with Max alo—.”

You see her over-all clad back, and backwards tipped painter’s hat first, but what’s if front of her steals your breath. The largest wall of the room is a splash of color from baseboard to ceiling, even spilling up across the ceiling is curls and swirls of color. Crystal spires clustered together on one side, clear and bright and proud, cast high into the pastel pink sky, the color blended and spread across the wall—purple and blue, and as it hit the edge of the wall and beginning of the ceiling, it darkened, and darkened, until it was the black of space, and the splash of stars in formations you didn’t recognize.

Krypton’s sky.

The city of glass was illuminated from the inside, spilling reflections across the sprawling green grass of the mountain range you know from outside National City, sloping low into the blue lake Kara had convinced you to go skinny dipping in once when you were teenagers. There was still something martian about them, maybe it was the red dust below the green bushes and the dark brown of the tree trunks, maybe it was the crystal stones, and flickering lights that seemed to delve deep into the colors. At the base of one of the trees was a large shaggy creature you knew wasn’t indigenous to earth—it looked something like a lion.

She’d blended her two planets together; mixing and matching their attributes to form something new, and lovely. The paint is splattered over her clothes, and skin, and all the covered furniture was surprisingly clear of splashes. Walking closer, you see that the paint is still wet on the walls, and the scent of paint thinner almost enough to make you pass out. Stepping around her, and opening the window glass so that there was some fume release.

You can see Kara’s face now, how she’s still not looking at you, still just looking at the drying paint on the wall. There’s little slashes of red and blue on her cheeks, and black through her eyebrow—her glasses have managed to fair a little better. But her blonde hair is mixed through with too many colors and shades to track.

“I’m pretty sure this is gender neutral,” she says, unblinking and just tracing her gaze up the spires on the wall, “If you don’t like it I can paint it over, no big deal, I have the eggshell in the car. I got green just in case—light green, because you don’t like green-green. But when I told the woman at Home Depot that, she didn’t know what _green-green_ was, and I had to explain it—it was harder than you thin—.”

You need to stop her, before even her Kryptonian lungs give out.

“It’s a boy.”

Silence.

She turns to look at you, and she’s a mess, but awe is a beautiful emotion on Kara—because it lives everywhere inside her. The blue, blue of her eyes, the crinkles just at their corners, and the curl of her lips—the slight hitching of her shoulders that said it burrowed into her muscles and bones already. You swear she crosses the distance between you without her feet on the floor. You’re in her arms, and she’s spinning, and you can only hear her laugh—wind chimes and sunlight—while you clench your eyes shut, and cling to the strong line of her shoulders.

“A boy!” She laughs, while putting your feet back on the ground, one hand at the side of your neck, the other on the almost comical curve of your stomach. She’s warm, and soft, and you know she probably shouldn’t be—but for you she always is, and it cracks something inside you that probably should stay whole. But you can’t regret it, and you won’t change it—because she’s clasping your cheeks to wipe at the tears spilling form your eyes. You don’t like crying, it makes you hiccup, and unsure, and everything is unsteady.

Except Kara.

She’s sturdy, and present, and waits for your eyes to become less blurry, but she’s been murmuring in your ear quietly. Stupid little nonsense that just makes you sob, or maybe laugh, and she’s bundling you close, and carding fingers through your hair, and you feel like a stupid, massive, idiot. And you can’t exactly place your finger on why—but it’s true, and you want to tell her so, but she’s being so damned _understanding_. And you don’t deserve her, but your son— _your son_ —does, and it’s idiotic, and confusing and—

Simple.

She said she would stay, and you don’t doubt her, not one bit. Never. Kassidy is flying to Alberta, and he’ll probably text you some picture of something idiotic, and you’ll laugh and—show Kara. Who is here, who is always here. She flew back, wihtout aid from a plane, from New York to have this finished by the end of your appointment. She did that for you. The picture is crumpled from where you had it in your pocket, it is the first one printed, the one you’d stashed away before thinking to ask for another copy. Unrumpling the edges you press your forehead against her shoulder, and breath. She matches you, breathing long and slow with you.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, because it is, and there aren’t _words_ to describe how perfect, but you think you can get pretty close. Pressing the sonogram picture into her paint spattered hands, her brow tucks, but her smile widens. “Your boy.” Brows furrow further, but when the words register those blue, blue eyes get wet and glassy, and her cheeks redden slightly. She’s stroking painter’s fingers over the white curve lovingly, while tears spill down her cheeks, and you’re in _awe_.


	26. snap shot 26. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**. _You always thought you'd like the quiet. That if all the sound that Earth is capable of bled away, you'd bask in the silence. You'd simply exist for a while in a place that isn't clambering to be it's loudest self. It isn't until the nothingness of space starts to bleed into your bones, that you realize how much you define yourself by that noise. You're the distant thunder, and the child's laughter. The argument down the hall, and the soft proclamations of love. Earth isn't quiet, because it has so much to say. You miss that._

* * *

You’re thirty-one when you commit yourself to suicide.

Well. That had been the  _initial_  plan, at least, but you’re a scientist, and a little too intelligent for that. Around your arm is strapped the reactor that you’d taken from the vault at Lorde Technologies. Green tipped prongs dig through your skin below it—the mineral from your home planet weakening your skin just enough to allow the invasion. The poison bleeds into you, but the hollowed tubes swallow the red of your blood and spin it quickly inside—a centrifuge—causing the low beeping that had started. It is locked to your genetic code—a failsafe you had made sure to enact because you had only one living relative, and that was small enough odds that this technology felt safe to play around with on earth.

And more importantly—beyond earth.

Your father had brought you to work with him often, to push buttons and absorb information—he was adamant you’d be a scientist, even when your mother had brought home law books and penal codes. You’d never been particularly invested in the judicial system; your aunt said it was because you had a soft heart, that your insides were good, and true, and had no place for the rigidity of law. Your father agreed—one of the few things he agreed with your aunt about—and because of it, she’d sneak you away and drop you off at his place of work.

Your uncle Jor would show you how to splice atoms, and shift elements, how to deconstruct the building blocks of life, and make them whatever you wanted. Build a new world. “But uncle,” you’d asked one evening, when he’d been filing through chemical compounds that would make the soil fertile again—maybe, “if we can make everything we want—why can’t we—why is the planet broken?” He’d looked impossibly sad that night, sighing, and sitting down beside where you’d stopped to eat dinner. Probably not safely, because there were dishes of toxic chemicals all around you, spilled on the metal table.

“Because,  _kri-ehl_ , some things are beyond even us. And—it is something we realized much too late.” He’d smiled, sad and kind, and you’d nodded—like you understood. He showed you that science isn’t always right, and beautiful—that sometimes it is necessary and dark. He’d found a pocket of space that existed outside the normal plane of existence. The  _Phantom Zone_ , they called it. That there was a way to temporarily rip a window to the fabric of space, and the worst of the worst got jettisoned there to wait out their sentence in nothingness.

You have seconds now, they’re ticking slowly away, and there is no way to stop it.

“But, what did I expect when I fell in love with a comet?” You want to tell her you’ll be her star, her gravitational pull, her black of space—anything that is absolute and timeless, but you can’t do that, because you’re letting her go. She’s smoothing careful fingers over your cheeks, wiping tears away like it will make you presentable. “Go be the hero, Kara.” She’s kissing you like goodbye, and your holding onto her elbows like you’ll never uncurl your fingers, but she’s licking desperately into your mouth, and her nose bumps against yours.

“Chop chop, supergirl.” She’s trying not to sob, and she’s always been the stronger of the two of you, because you’re openly bawling. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

You leave without looking back, because if you did, there was no way you’d go through with this. The nuclear weapon on your back breaks the containment that had been only just keeping it contained—bleeding UV radiation directly into you while the lead box is cracked open. Green pulses and hums along your skin, putting the hairs on edge, but you palm it anyway. Your grip wilts and softens, but you have to keep strong, have to fight the effects—the radiation is helping, pushing the green from your blood, and the red from your bones.

Catching the creature is harder than you thought it’d be, but you have to do it now before it has any more time to get used to this yellow star. Curling fingers around the sharpened meteorite like you’d been trying to teach Carter with a baseball, you do one jab toward the soft skin below the creature’s protrusions of bone and rock. It howls, digging fingers into your shoulders and breaking skin, because you’re both weakening. With the last of your strength, knowing the bleeding radiation is about to finish, and you only have moments—you go up. Taking the creature with your shoulders, curving so that it can’t fight your momentum.

 _Beep, beep_ —the reactor on your wrist digs further into your arm, and the low oxygen levels kicks it into action, circling through frequencies with an alarming rate. Tripping up and down the spectrum until it finds the proper one—that thin little veil that keeps the Phantom Zone away.  _Boom_. Your brain supplies the sound for the explosion at your back when the atmosphere ignites it, but there really isn’t any noise—maybe that’s because your ear drums have been destroyed, or maybe it is because it is space. But it chases from horizon to horizon like a wave spilling onto a beach.

You’re treated to an unfettered view of the planet you saved—impossibly large, and blue, and beautiful. And you’re glad you could do this, even if your heart is tripping and breaking. Even if you can only remember how Cat’s voice cracked, and how Clark screamed. Fingers numb and useless paw at the part of your chest where you know you’re keeping them—near your heart—and then the reactor on your wrist tightens, and the beeping gets louder and—suddenly space has opened up. There’s lights, and ships, and chaos—but the explosion had ripped it open violently and everything was breathed in like a giant taking a breath.

The Phantom Zone doesn’t discriminate—but the fissure is only open for a moment, before it slams shut.

And you fall into darkness.

* * *

You’re thirty-one, and have been in jail for two years.

They’d fished you out of the murky depths of the Phantom Zone with little more than opened bay doors and a careful angle. Your skin had been cracking, and the behemoth you’d been lugging along with you had thrashed, and fought, and when they had promptly jettisoned him back into the thick milky dark, they kept you. Had pried the warhead off your back, and peeled you out of the bloody black fabrics of your costume—because that is what it felt like now. Some kind of masquerade.

They tried to pry the reactor off your arm, but it began beeping loudly—shrilly—and the idiots who’d been sent to decontaminate you flinched away and left it. Smarter men and women had turned it this way and that, and couldn’t understand how it was imbedded so integrally into your arm. The metal rods that had dug deep and deeper the higher into the atmosphere you went—they were through the bone now, through the muscle and skin. It had fused to your skin in the explosion, and when the cracks started to paper over, and the pain started to go away—it stayed.

The pieces of the yellow sun still lingering in your blood and cells making themselves apparent. The slow leak of radiation from the meteorite tips of the reactor—funny how the rocks from your home had become cancerous to you, but this foreign sun’s radiation kept you strong.

You’d been folded into dark fabrics, and shoved into the darkest cell on the ship—in the bowels, where pipes leaked, and the hum of the engines gave you a headache. No one of consequence ever saw you, ever involved themselves with you— _who are you_ —you were sneered at for the first few months, in languages from every corner of the galaxy. You recognized some of them— _Galorian_ , and _Vintrekese_ , and you’re certain one speaks a dialect of _Salvahazian_  that your father had been fluent in—they are all languages you never thought you’d encounter again.

Because you promised yourself to this darkness, you somehow thought being alive, but untouchable, was preferable to death. You thought yourself clever, as if you could find some true way out of here. The reactor on your arm still leaks radiation into you, it feeds your cells like a martian IV, and you know you can bend these bars outward and away, that you can punch fingers through the walls like whispers and promises.

“Your name,” the master jailor asks, pressing an electric baton to the backs of your knees, and making you collapse forward, you grit your teeth, and swallow the scream. You aren’t invulnerable anymore, there’s isn’t  _enough_  radiation in you, and you blink blood from your eyes. “Someone sent you here, little girl, and there’s a sentence waiting for your name.” He thinks you’re a criminal, that you should be at home here, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been without leadership. How long Krypton’s been dead.

He tortures you for three hundred sixty one days—tugging you up from your cell, and lashing you to a chair. His eyes dark, his smile darker, and you try to remember what Cat looks like when she smiles—or how Clark would blush when you did something  _embarrassing_ , or how Carter said  _ieiu_  perfectly. The memories sizzle, like they’re being forcibly removed from your brain, but you hold them dear—hold them close, so that when he peels your finger nails off, you scream, but don’t say anything.

You promised yourself to this place. You thought yourself clever.

It isn’t until you’re locked into this basement hell for seven hundred and four earth days, that you hear voices speaking your mother tongue—the looping, tilted phasing of Krypton have always endeavored to be elegant. Better than the blue collar races that they surrounded themselves with—somehow justified by their illumination, and spiraling crystal cities. It is a man and woman, and just the way their words curl and curve, you know they’re not the same kind of rabble that had been making their way down to you.

Curling in on yourself in the corner, knees brought up, arms folded in the little space between them and your body, and you rest your cheek against the wall, biding your time. The man is stern looking, his brow defined, and his light features drawn, like this place has taxed all the kindness from him—eyes sharp and blue, lips turned down into a frown. You recognize him, somehow, but you can’t properly place him until you see the woman by his side—

You’re mother.

But it takes only a moment to realize your mistake, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head to understand what is happening. You’ve been on Fort Rozz, the penal colony that had been launched into the Phantom Zone before you’d been born—where the worst of the worst went. The jailers had scuffed you as some terminal breach to their sovereign space, and had tossed you into the bowels to rot away for your undetermined sentence.

They’re both handcuffed, but their jailor seems less than involved with leading them, too busy chattering away with them like old friends—you know that happens here. The younger guards try to make their lives easier by building dialog with the inmates. Especially the ones from this deepest, darkest basement hell—the worst of the worst. The ones who could be trouble if they wished to be.

Your aunt’s eye is swollen shut, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it in the least, it is in the perfect square of her shoulders, and the lift of the edge of perfectly red lips. Cheekbones, and eyes, and nose all how you remember—but not—because like the man, something has been leached from her, pulled from her eyes and skin, and very  _bones_. And it has you uncurling, because she’s familiar, and you need that—and you don’t  _understand_  how she got here, why she’s here. You’re dragging yourself up onto tired limbs before you realize and are standing just before the grate of your cell.

She looks at you, and she  _doesn’t recognize you_. It pulls at something inside you, the thing that stopped you from crying when they were cutting into your skin, which stopped you from talking when they said they could give you anything you asked for—if you  _just cooperated_. But Astra doesn’t recognize you, she looks your way when you shuffle forward, and she  _looks through you_. It seizes something in your chest, and it causes you pain that isn’t superficial, that is deeper, and harder to navigate.

“They picked this one up two-thousand fifty eight Rune cycles ago,” the jailor supplies when he sees you have their attention, “Rocketed in here with the Ultimate, and they decided to keep her when they send it to the blackest parts of the Zone.”

 _That_  gets the man’s attention, “The Ultimate?”

The jailor snuffs, “One and only, thing decided to resurface after a few millennia, it seems—warden couldn’t decide if she’s its captor, or its partner.”

Astra smiles, and it’s your mother’s smile—the thing that was always the same between them, no matter how far they grew apart, “Seems small for a captor,” her eyes cut toward the jailor that reaches only your shoulder, and he knows the slight when he hears it.

“In any case, hasn’t talked a word since they started interrogating her—stubborn thing. Can’t even determine her origin, some kind of radiation is mucking up the sensors whenever they try to process her.”

“Krypton.” You say, and your voice is hoarse, and brittle, and shaking—because your throat is dry, and raw from screaming. “I’m from Krypton.” It feels strange to speak in your mother tongue, but you never lost your fluency—not like Clark. It was the piece of your world you’d always keep, even when you tried to forget everything else.

Like how crystal cities shattered.

Astra steps closer, and you’re shaking, hardly the paragon of strength you wanted to show her you’ve become—hardly the hero. But she isn’t looking through you anymore, those eyes trip over your face and along your jaw, and it must be hard to recognize the twelve year old girl in your thirty-one year old face. You’re nearly the same age, but something must register, because she steps closer, and her handcuffed hands are raised to touch your face through the bars. She can’t quiet reach, because they snag in the confinement, and you step closer so that she can cradle your cheek. She’s warm, and familiar, and you’re crying—shuddering sobs that make you lean forward until the bars dig into your forehead, but she’s murmuring softly to you.

“Little one,” you’d forgotten that she called you that, how her voice would soften, and her eyes would melt.

“Aunt Astra,” you keen, breaking down after so long alone.

* * *

You’re thirty-one when the prisoners revolt.

They’ve been without contact with the actual galaxy for decades; you’re the only addition in that time, and that makes the prisoners agitated. Astra has appointed herself your guard, though you never asked, and when you sit together in the harrowing halls of the basement mess, Non begins his predictable preaching of injustice—his audience the darkest of the dark, the cruelest of the cruel—and you. You chew through the mottled food from your home world, no longer having the palette for it, but it’s been six earth years, and you’ve stopped noticing what you don’t have the stomach for anymore.

The list is getting shorter, and you don’t like that.

“Little one,” she still calls you that, even though you’re hardly little any longer, and her eyes slide over your face the same as they had when you were younger, like she’s looking for something, “Non and his— _disciples_ —have found themselves in possession of information I feel you must be made aware of.” That’s what she calls them,  _disciples_ , like this madness really deserved a name.

“Non hasn’t had anything enlightened to say since he started raving to the masses,” you imagine Cat in your place sometimes, not because you want to see her rot here, but because her dry wit makes it bearable—you imagine what she’d say, how she’d react. Because she’s always been the stronger of the two of you—she’s had a spine of steel, when yours seems to be made of tinder.

“While true,” she concedes, and steeples her fingers under her chin, you sit shoulder to shoulder, because it is a comfort to feel her against you—warm, and solid, and  _family_ , and she never comments. “This one could cause—unrest.”

You turn away as she purses her lips, and you turn to watch him, and find his blue eyes already on you—like he hasn’t looked away in a while, and you’re just now noticing. The energy in the room is turning volatile, rumbling low, and tearing at the seams. The prisoners are banging their fists against tables, and smashing their shoulders into the walls. And he’s just—standing there—watching you.

“He found the readings for the device on your arm—the one they’ve been afraid to remove.” She’s talking low, but your hearing is  _just_  enhanced enough to hear her. She’s standing up, shoulders squaring, and you find yourself mimicking her—you feel like  _the Spectre_  again, even if you have no mask, and no hood to protect your identity. But here, you don’t need one—you are Kara Zor-El, eldest member of the great House of El, who rode into the Phantom Zone on the back of the Ultimate.

There are stories about you.

“It’s nothing important.” You say instead of the truth, because you’ve learned to keep everything close, even from those you want to trust—the people you trust implicitly aren’t here. And they’ll never be here.

“It’s very important.”

The way she says it makes you turn to look at her, at how her lips turn into a frown, and how her eyes darken—but there’s an apology there, an unspoken _I’m sorry_ , like the one you keep in your chest for your dying planet. Some sad little truth that will never see the light of day, because you can’t imagine the world falling off your tongue.

“Aunt Astra,” you don’t know if it’s a warning, or a plea, but it somehow becomes both, and she’s stepping toward you, and you’re stepping backwards—conceding ground while the energy in the room explodes. Prisoners tearing into guards, taking their electric batons and spilling blood. The chaos somehow folds around you and Astra, as if they don’t wish to get too close, but you are stepping away, closer to the locked door—the one that’ll lead you upstairs.

“Non knows it can open the rift,” six years you’ve kept this secret, you’ve shouldered the knowledge that you could get out at any time, if you were willing to take the worst of the worst with you. But—but the frequencies stored in the drives would bring you back to earth, would release these hell spawns upon your borrowed home, and you couldn’t allow that. “He wants it.” There is a kind of madness in her, but so many years in this place could do that to anyone—could suck the goodness out of anyone.

“He won’t be able to use it,” no, it was coded to your genetics, and even though he’s one of the few Kryptonian’s left, he’s not close enough. Not by a long shot—but Astra. Astra is. And that makes you back up more, because you’d gotten complacent, and too comfortable—you’d forgotten that you aren’t a criminal, even though you’ve been locked up like one. Gritting your teeth, a body hits you from the side, and you tense, turning to press fingers into his shoulder, and the bone _snaps_ under your grip. The reactor on your arm beeps, and the rods going through your muscles heats—almost scalding as the radiation fizzles along the back of your arm.

Astra’s eyes widen, because you’ve kept this to yourself too—the abilities you get from th yellow sun, the ones you’ve been borrowing for years in this blackness by way of improper containment and radiation leaks. You’re still so weak compared to what you’re used to, but you’re still astounding to the natives of your home world. Who are used to red stars, and impossible gravity.

“Don’t do this, Astra.” You _are_ pleading, because you don’t want to lose her too—you _can’t_ —but there’s a firmness in here, the need to escape and be rid of this place. And you want to tell her that it isn’t worth it—that you’d rot here for a thousand years, if it meant keeping your family safe. She steps toward you, and you back pedal, shoving through a woman who has green skin and horns, flipping her over your back and across the room.

The guards open the door just long enough to let you through, and once again you’re looking at her from behind bars.

* * *

You’re thirty-one, and you’re tired.

The prisoners—though can they be called that if there’s no one keeping them in line—have taken over half the ship; the warfare in the corridors have gone beyond savage, and you spend most nights with your head between your hands because you can hear the faintest echoes of suffering far below. It has been three earth years since you last spoke to Astra—and when you see her in the hall, some new fleck of blood on her cheek, something inside you breaks, because you know she isn’t all gone—you see how her eyes soften, and how her mouth dips into a frown and you want to forgive her.

Want to tell her you understand, and some part of you does.

The part of you that thinks you can crack open the Phantom Zone and there will be no casualties—that you can ask nicely for them to leave earth be, and go and pillage some other section of the galaxy. And while that part grows bigger every day, it still hasn’t eclipsed the moral center you have tether so firmly to the people you love—to Clark, and Carter, and Cat. To the people who mean everything to you. Some nights, when the reactor on your arm whirs a little louder, and the buzz across your skin is scalding and uncomfortable, you try to tell yourself it isn’t even a possibility; that it wouldn’t work. That they’re no way to escape.

But you know that’s a lie—you’re a scientist, after all, and a little too intelligent for that.

“They’ve breached the botanical gardens,” the helmsman says, frowning while tapping on keys and dragging finger tips across the curved displays. You’re in a flight jumpsuit, and the master jailor has come to understand that you aren’t the menace he proposed you to be— _Alura’s daughter? Why didn’t you say anything_ —and while you sit on their bridge, you keep to yourself; because you’re not a warrior, not like this. You’re a vigilante that has never had to be accountable for a hierarchy, who has never had to ask—because you’d been the most powerful person on the planet. And it is an intoxicating knowledge, even if you aren’t utterly enamored like some might be.

“Oh no,” you drone, unable to stop yourself, “Fresh veggies.” The translations gets a bit clunky when your English sarcasm—the little voice that’s Cat in your head—gets transposed to Kryptonese. You haven’t spoken English in a decade, and sometimes the little voice that is Cat, or Clark, or Carter is in your mother tongue, and while it seems wrong—you can’t _remember_ what it is supposed to sound like. Like they’ve been dubbed poorly, and the original has been lost.

“Not the food stores, Zor-El,” the maser jailor sneers, and you still get the impression he doesn’t like you very much. “The parasitic gardens.” He’s cursing in _Trombusian_ and you understand most of it, because he’s really has only been cursing at you since you’ve been on this side of the bars. He’s determined to keep Fort Rozz in the Phantom Zone; dons his armor and his snarl and paints the hallways bright with blood—not just red, you’ve learned, because the _Calorians_ bleed green, and the _Byzaniums_ bleed yellow.

“They’ve unlocked the Black Mercy,” the lieutenant at the security terminal gasps, and you frown—because it sounds familiar, but you can’t remember from where.

“What’s the Black Mercy?” You ask hesitantly.

* * *

You’re—you’re thirty-one. Or are you—no, no you are.

“Mm,” you hear the blare of the alarm from beside the bed, and only the first rays of light against your bare shoulder blades. “Do you have to get up before the sun?” You murmur, unhappy that you have to be part of this nonsense, but smiling all the while because your bed partner is just as groggy. Cat’s hand is tangled in your hair, nudging your head away, but you’re unmoving, pressing kisses to the bare line of her shoulder, to the warmth just below her chin.

“Unlike some of us,” she grouses, voice low and raspy, which does something delightful to you; a drop down your spine, and a tightening low in your stomach while you hum against her collarbone. “I’m human, and need to work out if I want to look even moderately presentable when I’m older.” Her hand slaps out fitfully at first, missing the alarm horribly, and you have to laugh against her shoulder, shaking your head when she grins in victory—the alarm silenced.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, nosing along her jaw, and lifting yourself up onto your forearms so that you can meet her eyes. Still a little cloudy from sleep, with little crusties at the corners, and a crinkle between her brows as Cat blinks against the morning sun.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she smiles, before she remembers that she’s annoyed by you, and your  _unfair_  alien genetics, and when she raises a hand to shove at your shoulder, you catch her by the wrist and curl your fingers through hers, pinning it to the pillow beside her head.

“You’re beautiful.” You repeat, lowering slightly so that the bare length of you presses into her, her lips tipping up into a smile, and the fogginess of sleep goes hazy and warm. “Now, yesterday, tomorrow—and until the stars go dark.” Leaning down, you steal her breath with a kiss, pressing into her, and tipping her chin so that you can delve into her mouth and taste this beautiful woman that is yours.  _Until the stars go dark_.

You’ve made her that promise before—but when?

She moans, and rolls her hips up into you, wet and wanting already, and that thrill that always lives inside you bleeds into every one of your cells. Kissing along her jaw, and down the soft side of her throat, catching her pulse between your teeth until you go further—your lips around a tight nipple, her hand clawing insistently at your hair, and chanting some approximation of your name. There’s a wet line up the tense muscles of your stomach from where she’s grinding into you as you go down, nipping along the proud bow of her ribs, and then the soft curve of her belly.

Hands that may have been trying to stave off this _waste of time_  are now shoving insistently at your shoulders, encouraging you lower. Cat whines when you spend too long at her hipbone, nosing along the definitions. “ _Kara_.” You don’t know what you’d give to hear her say your name like that every morning; pleading, and sure, and desperate. Like you’re the only think she can think to ask for—the only thing she knows she’s always have.

Sliding her thighs onto your shoulders you waste no time swiping your tongue through her wetness, gathering it on your tongue and humming in appreciation. Her ankles have hooked behind your head, pulling you in, and you find no reason not to abide, wrapping your lips around her clit and sucking gently, scraping your teeth just a bit over the tip which had Cat arching off the bed and curling fingers into the headboard. Which is already broken from your grip last night, but maybe she’s forget and when this is over you can blame her.

It doesn’t take long before she’s keening desperate at the back of her throat, head tossed into the pillows and blinding grabbing for anything to hold onto—the headboard, and your hair, it seems. Delving into her deeper, taking her wholly in your mouth, it is her tipping point as she tightens around your tongue, and screams your name, the end tripping into a little yelp and you gather more of her taste swiftly and nose along her stomach. Cat’s panting, and her legs have splayed open in a decidingly graceless way that just makes you love her more. She’s scratching at your scalp listlessly, and you catch her left hand, pressing kisses to her fingertips, and along the curve of her palms. Stopping at the ring on her finger—Callaghan’s rings look like they were meant to rest against the bottom most knuckle of this woman.

“Kara Grant,” she demands hoarsely, though the hand in your hair just keeps lulling you with delightful scratches, “Come up here and kiss me.”

“We never agreed on a last name,” you whisper against her belly, pressing kisses in a line up between her breasts, until you’re looking down at her. “You could be Cat Callaghan.”

“That sounds like the damsel from a trashy romance novel, I will not be your maiden fair.” She’s frowning, but her eyes are smiling, and you can’t stop yourself from giving her the kiss she  _demanded_. It gets a little heavier than you intended, before she’s unceremoniously shoving you up and away, leaving you to flop dramatically into the rucked up bed sheet. “I need to work out, and I won’t let you distract me anymore you— _distractor_.”

You grin, watching her walk naked around the room, pale and perfect, and  _yours_. And something feels off in your chest, but it’s easy to shove down and away when she’s right here, peaking at you out of the corner of her eye. Tugging on a tank top and shorts, leaning over you to give you another kiss, “Good morning,” she rubs her nose against yours, and you lean up for another kiss, snagging one hand behind her neck to keep her for a third—and fourth—and fifth, and just when her knee is back on the bed, and it looks like maybe you’ve won this round she plucks at your wrist with two fingers, and removes your hand.

You grin, “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

“I can,” she says sternly, “and I will.” Taking a few steps back and away, she’s all the way down the hall before she calls for you again, “Don’t think I don’t know about that meeting you have this morning—Max’ll have your head if you’re late again.” Groaning, you press a pillow against your face and scream loud enough that she’s laughing over the sound of the treadmill. Tossing the pillow to the side, you look toward the field beside the country house, and appreciate how the sun dips from over the far ridges—bright, and warm, and perfect.

Your life is perfect.

Closing your eyes, sinking into the bed that smells Cat—and you—and if there is anything you like better than how she smells, it is when you can catch faint traces of yourself on her. It is a possessive side you try not to acknowledge too often, but it warms something inside you—sates some unmentioned beast that lingers like a captured dragon in the cage of your ribs. Inhaling deeply, you let the sun warm your skin, rolling over onto your stomach so you can maybe get another hour or two of sleep, before Cat stops her ridiculously exhausting work out, and pushes you awake.

Your senses are shutting down, one by one tucking themselves away so that you can go back to sleep, but you hear something unusual just before you tip into oblivion—Cat’s heartbeat has doubled. Like it has begun to chase itself tirelessly, one getting faster, and faster—the other slow and sedate, which doesn’t match the sound of feet on the treadmill you can also make out from down the hall. Slinging legs over the edge of the bed, you blinking open your eyes and listen—searching for the other source, and it is—looking out the window. You see her, standing at the crest of the hill just barely hiding National City.  _Tha thump, tha thump, tha thump_. The heart beat is right, but something—is wrong—it sits like a weight in your stomach. Quickly pulling on pants and a sweatshirt, you make sure Cat— _your_  Cat—is still on the treadmill before flying out the window and hovering above the imposter.

It’s Cat Grant—but not—she’s looking at you like she’s seen a ghost, a picture of someone who died long ago, and you don’t like it—not how her eyes water and spill down her cheeks. There’s crinkles there you don’t recognize, laugh lines around her mouth that are just beginning to form, and a dip between her brows that is deeper and more concerned. She’s pressing a hand to her mouth, fingers curls along the blade of her jaw, and what hits you hardest is that she isn’t wearing any rings—her left hand is empty, and her eyes are sad.

“What—,” you start desperately, but then stop and frown, floating a little lower, and crossing your arms. Whatever this is, you won’t allow them closer to your family—Carter is still asleep, and Cat is...Cat is inside. She’s getting ready for work. “Who are you?” You ask firmly, jaw clenched, that burning in your chest that has always felt wrong is spilling into your blood like an overflowing cup.

“Kara,” your name is a sob, leaking into the morning air and seeping into your skin, “Kara.” She says again, and your brow tucks, and your lips purse. Your heart is racing, and your head hurts, and you don’t want her to say your name anymore because it makes things get fuzzy at the edges, makes the colors fade a little. This fake Cat—this  _not_ -Cat—is bleeding the life from your world, and you  _need_  her to stop.

“Stop!” You grit out, cupping hands over your ears, and shaking your head—dropping gracelessly to the ground, you clench a fist and hit your temple, trying to knock the pain out and away.

“Kara! Kara, stop, you’re hurting yourself.” She’s suddenly in front of you, closer than before, wrapping delicate little hands around your wrists and trying in vain to pull them from your head. You fight her, and her grunt is familiar, and the way her eyes squint in concern, and her mouth dips with worry. “You’re hurting yourself, lovely. You need to stop.” You can’t hear her, but it is like her voice vibrates in your bones, right into your  _heart_.

Your heart is beating too fast, it’s at the back of your throat.

Scrambling away from her, raising your hands like a defense, she tries to step closer, but you back away, tripping over your own feet to put more distance between you. “You’re not my wife!” You declare, pointing at her, and she swallows—eyes widening, and mouth opening like she can’t think of what she’s supposed to say. “She’s—she’s in the living room, she’s—I hear her on the treadmill.” You’re getting dizzy, and the murmur in your ears isn’t voices, but like traffic, and noise pollution. “She has a meeting this morning—the—the tribune’s anniversary—they need her go-ahead on—something. I—I can’t remember.”

Not-Cat is approaching you with hands out, raised like she means you no harm, but her mere presence is hurting—and you scramble backwards, away from her, and it cracks something in her eyes. Standing up on shaking legs, you spin to go back to the house but— _your_  Cat is standing right behind you. She’s not wearing her work out clothes, she’s wearing the cream colored dress you like, the belt at her waist making her seem small and soft, and she’s smiling at you—and her eyes aren’t cracked, and you relax because her warm hands are cupping your cheeks, wearing her wedding rings, and you’re safe, and she’s here—and everything is perfect.

“Here you are,” she sooths, tucking hair behind your ears, “you need to go get in the shower, Carter’s going to be up soon.” Inhaling deep, trying to fill your lungs with her—but she has no scent, no smell. And your brows furrows, and you can feel the weight of not-Cat’s eyes on your back. Fingers are hooking almost painfully into your cheeks, but she’s smiling softly at you, solid green eyes bright like gems.

“Who is she, Cat?” you ask, because none of this is making sense, and your throat feels scratchy and raw, like you’ve been screaming.

“No one, love, no one. I’ll get her to leave; don’t you worry.” Cat promises, leaning forward to kiss your forehead, but her lips are cool, and wrong, but that  _something_ in your chest is telling you to agree. Nodding, you stand, and walk toward the house, listening to the sound of sirens getting closer. You can only hear one heartbeat—and it is strong, and quick, and you can taste it on your tongue.

“This isn’t real, Kara!” The voice cuts through you like a green blade, right into your chest and through your heart—you stagger and stop, but don’t turn around. “This is perfect, and lovely—but it isn’t real. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry that we didn’t have this, but—but Kara. I need you.” Her voice cracks, and shatters, and you’re half turned before you realize it—because it is an instinctive response you have no control over. To go to Cat when she’s in pain.

“She’s lying,” Cat says, and her voice is smooth, and soft, and her hand is cool against your shoulder, and you— _she laughs wrong_ , it pops into your mind without preamble, but you remember that Cat doesn’t cover her mouth when she laughs, because it always surprises her. She never expects it—this cat— _your_  Cat, covers her mouth. Like she’s ashamed about it, like she doesn’t want you to see.

“I  _need_  you,” not-Cat shouts over the buzzing in your ears, until you realize it isn’t your ears—but the whole world, like static and thunder storms, “you’d be so proud of our boys—both of them. Clark’s working for the Planet, and he’s dating the most  _obnoxious_  woman, and I hate her—and—and you’d like her. You’d say she’s _genuine_. And Carter—he’s gotten so big, Kara—he’s thirteen, but it’s like sometimes he’s the parent, and—and sometimes I feel like I’m messing everything up, and that’s when I miss you most.”

The sounds of her sobbing is like bolts of electricity through you, it burns, and shocks, and hurts, but you’re turning back to her, and reclaiming the steps between you—like you’re just a satellite caught in her orbit. “I miss you most then, because you’d tell me that everything is fine, and that I’m doing my best, and—and I  _need_  you. I can’t do it alone anymore.” She’s older, and sadder, and there’s a sharpness to her that you don’t recognize, that is tucked into all the edges she isn’t showing you—but she’s familiar, and when you pull her into you, she wraps around you perfectly. Her head under your chin, her tear soaking into the fabric of your sweatshirt—and you  _feel_  her.

“Z _rhueiao_ ,” you murmur, and the word is one you haven’t said in what feels like forever—and yet, it lives inside you. “What’s happening?” The world is cracking apart, and the color is bleeding away, and everything hurts, and you can’t breathe. But Cat is warm, and strong, and feels _right_  against you, and suddenly that means more than morning kisses, and perfect lives. Because this feels real. It is messy, and imperfect.

“Darling,” but even though this Cat feels perfectly settled in your arms, that little looping note at the end of the endearment has you half turned, just to see—just to make sure. And Cat’s in the white she wore on your wedding day, lace, and silk, and beautiful trails of fabric that she’d laughed—covering her mouth—about when you’d gotten tangled up in them trying to get the garter. The veil of thin white lace covers the top half of her face, and your body is releasing the older, sadder woman in your arms because this is—this is everything you ever wanted.

“Darling,” this brighter, happier, younger Cat whispers again, twirling a finger through a curl of your hair, tugging you a step closer, and then another, and you feel how fingers dig into your arms from behind like they’ll be able to keep you, but no one can keep you if you don’t want to stay. You’ve always wanted to stay for Cat—and now there’s two. “You asked me to marry you—I didn’t make you hang those rings around your neck like an albatross. I said yes.”

You remember asking her, remember how she’d gotten home late one night, and Carter was with Clark, and you’d made dinner—and ruined it—and had ordered pizza instead, and everything had gone wrong, and you’d scrapped the idea. But you forgot to take the ring box off the dresser in the bedroom, and she’d wandered out with them on her knuckle, and a smile on her face. “The answer’s yes, since you forgot to ask,” you’d gaped, and stuttered, and she’d quieted you with a kiss.

Carter and Clark are behind her, and some part of your mind recognizes that they shouldn’t also be dressed in the tuxedos they wore to your wedding—or that Carter shouldn’t be a teenager, and Clark shouldn’t be only fifteen—the ages are all wrong, and warble at the edges, but your heart is pattering loudly in your chest, and your throat hurts like you’re screaming again. She’s pressing against your front, curling fingers like claws into the divets of your shoulders, when she presses her nose against the bottom of your jaw, she feels like black smoke and vapor.

“This isn’t real,” they’re from the bottom of your chest, and the back of your mind, and like they’re able to crumble kingdoms and shatter truths, this younger, happier, white-clad Cat flinches away, and you chase her for one step, before you stop—turning to watch how Carter and Clark dissolve into colored mist. They splash away, and the ground cracks open, the fissures of Krypton before it imploded—the spouts of fire and molten rock splashing up into the air. “I—why isn’t this real?” You can’t understand what’s happening, why your perfect life has to shatter before your eyes, but it is—and you can’t justify it.

“I can be real,” happier, younger Cat says from her distance, reaching up with hands that are too thin, and shaking—her skin splitting like dried rock, little flecks of molten light falling through and rolling down her fingers to drip off the tips. “Just stay, and we can be happy.” But you don’t think happiness should taste like the ash in your mouth, or the sulfur in your nose. She’s pleading you, but her eyes have gone black, and her smile is cracking and it hurts you to step away, it shatters your heart and digs awareness from your blood.

Squeezing your eyes shut as the world thunders around you, everything falls away.

* * *

You’re thirty-one when the Black Mercy releases you.

Small, warm delicate hands feel strangely right on your cheeks, “Welcome back, supergirl.”


	27. snap shot 27. ( 1, 13, 15 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. _You don't think about a lot of things; you tell yourself its a choice, but really you don't like who you can be when you're sad. So you ignore the sadness. As if ignoring it will simply make it flutter away with the wind. That isn't the case; but you've never stopped trying. You're tenacious, if nothing else. But with Kara, remembering those things was like taking a deep breath for the first time in years. Filling your lungs, and closing your eyes. Listening to the quiet, and knowing there are other people out there too. In the silence._

* * *

The boy has no fear, he clambers under the table, and into your lap without much worry on the fact that he just met you today—the girl, on the other hand, shivers and shakes like she’s barely holding herself together. Eyes wide and unsure behind thick, smudged lenses—frames crooked and taped at one corner. She’s every stereotype your mother warned you about growing up—the unwashed masses who saw the world in shades of fool’s gold, and forgotten green. You’ve taken her to the restaurant a few blocks over; quieter, and cheaper, but with food leagues better than the pompous café you’d just stormed out of.

“So, Keira,” you begin, tapping your finger against the rim of your glass, the boy giggles in your lap, and smacks a hand on the table—and the workmanship must be awfully shoddy, because it shudders and cracks a little. You catch him by his tiny fingers, and he gleefully leans back into you. You’ve never been partial to children, they’re loud, and dirty, and— _loud_. But this little boy hasn’t set off those particular annoyances—yet.

“Kara,” she interrupts, swallowing and looking away, before looking back—the gravel in her tone makes her sound older, or maybe it is the accent flavoring her words. Middle eastern perhaps? In any case, her blue, blue eyes blink and burn, before she once again focuses on her glass of water.

“Yes, yes—Keira,” flitting the words away with a wave of your fingers, a move you’d picked up from your mother—she called it _steamrolling_ a conversation. “Where do you go to school?”

She blinks, listing her head to one side in a manner that seems distinctly canine—how a puppy tips their head. “I don’t,” she says simply, and reaches to pick up the glass of water. Just the fingertips, barely a sip.

“A delinquent, lovely.” You drawl, looking down at the boy—Clark—like you’re speaking to him, “Can I assume you are a deviant as well?” He cheers, clapping, and when he grabs _your_ glass of water, you don’t stop him—he gulps it down and spills it down the front of his shirt.

“I’m not,” she purses her lips, leaning forward, investing herself for the first time, “I’m not a _delin_ —I’m not that.” The furrow in her brow says she doesn’t like how she tripped over the word, eyes sad, but bright, and it’s the strangest thing. “ _Kal-El—Klahrk—fidh podh ahmpahr shod. Edhyv kluv. Gem rth_.” The boy wiggles, and you put your hands up like that somehow proves that it wasn’t your doing.

Clark clears his throat, and sets your water down on the table, pivoting in your lap so that he can face you properly—your hands still hovering awkward in the air near him, but not touching. “Thank you,” he says, clear English, the faintest hint of his cousin’s gravel, “For— _ehk, Kara_.”

“Water,” his cousin supplies.

“For the water.” His grin—is chub, and little nugget teeth. He seems a little young to be able to mash together decently coherent sentences, but there’s an intelligence in him—in his dark blue, almost black eyes, and pudgy little face.

“You’re very welcome, little heathen.” You can’t stop yourself from pushing his curls out of his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and when he _throws_ himself off your lap, and toward what was supposed to be his chair, you try not to flinch. Kara says something quicker in whatever language she prefers, but then exhales and slouches.

Horrible posture.

“Where’re you from?” You ask, because you’re curious, and there are pieces you aren’t putting together properly, and you don’t like that—don’t like not knowing.

She shrugs, but those blue, blue eyes are haunted, and hollow, and you can only think of the beginning of Dream-Land— _bottomless vales and boundless floods, and chasms, and caves, and Titan woods_. Your creative writing teacher had a certain obsession with Edgar Allen Poe, and while you were never one thrilled with the idea of written angst—you understood it to a point.

“Was the shrug my answer,” you drawl, “Or are you thinking about a lie?”

She looks at you then, really looks at you, and she’s young—it is in the curve of her cheek, and the breadth of her eyes. “Here.” She settles on, “I’m from here.”

“I don’t think anyone’s actually _from_ National City, people just end up here.” It is the strangest thing—none of the girls from your school were born in this zip code—a little further up the coast, in other well to-do areas with vineyards and sprawling mansions. “I’m from Metropolis; moved here last year.”

When your father died.

You had cried whenever you walked through the halls of the third floor, and the scent of sick and antiseptic made you nauseous—you know it wasn’t actually there, but it lingered in your mind. Like some kind of bloodless wound.

Kara takes a sip of water, and when the waitress comes to take your order, you don’t even bother to give her the chance to fumble—she hasn’t touched the menu, and she looks like a deer about to be barreled over by a hummer. Chicken tenders, or whatever masticates poultry they have on the menu—you even go so far as to order it in _nugget_ form for the boy.

He’s ecstatic.

“I’m from here,” she says again, “Now. I’m from here _now_.” And something about the set of her shoulders, and chin, lets you know this is her new truth. And it’s one you can respect, because you know what running away feels like—even if you don’t call it that in your mind. You call it moving forward, or moving on. But the truth is much simpler, and much harder to admit.

“Me too,” you agree.

And she smiles—and it’s a pretty smile. Makes up for her atrocious bangs and ill-fitting glasses, but what you like best about it is how soft it is. Unlike her crumbling diamond eyes, that are carved out and set upon—her smile is delicate and fragile, and you’re afraid to break it. Afraid to be at fault for it’s lose.

“Well, since we’re both from National City now,” leaning forward, elbows on the table in a way you mother would smack you for, “That makes us practically neighbors.” Looking out the tackily painted window, and to the poorly paved street beyond—this wasn’t the _red light_ district, but it wasn’t far. And you think about how you’ll be taking a town car service back over the imaginary border—where the lights get brighter, and the buildings newer. “So, neighbor, tell me something about yourself.” Kara leans away, and you smile—if you were inclined toward feline puns, you’d endeavor to use one, “Something you’ve never told anyone.”

It’s interesting how she blinks, like you can see the thoughts flicker across her gaze, before they get tucked away—does she think in English? Or that other language? Is that why she takes so long to answer, all those thoughts being broken down and repurposed like different shapes than what they’re supposed to be.

“I don’t like birds.” You laugh, because that isn’t what you’d been expecting, but Kara leans forward now. Pushing poorly cut bangs out of her eyes, and inhaling, setting her shoulders back. “My home—where I’m from—we didn’t have bird. Many birds. You couldn’t hear them—so when I hear the birds…”

She trails off, and something in your chest pangs—harder than a heartbeat, and softer than an anvil. Just an ache, because you don’t hear the _beep beep_ of your father’s respirator when you wake up for school—the wheeze of the machines working, plugging away when you were asleep. You don’t like the quiet of morning.

She must not either.

“You remember you’re not home.” You finish for her, and the relief in her face is palpable—that she doesn’t have to explain, that she doesn’t have to dig deeper. This fellow new age National City native. The waitress shows up, and puts down your salad, Clark’s nuggets, and Kara’s chicken sandwich—and when she leave, you tap a nail on the table—smiling slightly when she looks up.

“I agree—birds are dicks.”


	28. snap shot 28. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (WINN** ). _When you were young, you liked to people watch. Sit in the park by your house, and watch them walk through from one street to the next. You'd make up whole lives for them in the few minutes they were in your life. Happiness, sadness, and everything in between. You've since grown out of it, but sometimes, you can't help wondering what lives behind someone's eyes._

* * *

No one knows who she is; she just appears one day in the middle of the afternoon, sunglasses perched on her nose, hands shoved in her pockets.

She initially stays in the break room, but after an hour or two, she migrates to the empty desk outside Cat Grant’s office; sitting in the ergonomic chair with her arms folded across her chest, and feet barely skimming the ground. You’ve worked at CatCo Worldwide Media for three years now, longer than anyone else on this floor—and you’ve never seen anyone adapt so quietly to the organized chaos of the news-floor. There were places for people who didn’t talk—the thirty eighth floor where everyone had a text-based roleplay counterpart that they talked to each other as. Or the fifty-second floor where everyone talked in the third person, which made talking awkward—and thus, no one talked.

But no—she appears one day in the middle of the week, and leaves not long after lunch.

No one says anything.

You aren’t surprised your boss doesn’t notice, because she doesn’t notice much outside the frosted glass of her office—unless it is something she’s supposed to notice, then everything seems to be subject to scrutiny. You’ve seen her notice someone playing solitary from the other side of the room, glasses off, eyes still on her terminal—you swear she has spies, or is psychic.

Psychic spies?

The fact that she doesn’t notice the blonde rolling a rubber band ball across the desk right outside her office, says something very important to you—Cat Grant is choosing to not notice, and that sits strangely on your nerves for the rest of the day. There’s a million and one explanations that could be made from that, but you haven’t lasted three years by involving yourself in situations that don’t involve you.

She doesn’t show back up the next day.

Or the next.

You’re in the middle of carrying three boxes of hard drives down the stairs when you see her again— _see_ , is a relative term—you run into her, and man, is she _solid_. The top two boxes shuffle and tip, and you’re already planning on where to send your resume when they’re caught. Tan fingers are looped into the holes in the side of the bottom box, and she’s looking at you through dark lenses. Her face isn’t unfriendly—if anything, it is soft and kind, despite the fact that she isn’t smiling—but she isn’t frowning either.

She looks like she’s waiting—you didn’t know _waiting_ could be an expression.

“Boy, you’re solid, aren’t ya!?” You begin, and curse yourself silently for the obnoxiously loud volume, “In a—in a good way, a very good way. Working out, it’s important.” She’s just looking at you, and nothing about her face has changed, and you’re about to stutter out an apology and just _get out of her way_ —when she smiles. It isn’t big, or wide, but it’s genuine, and nice. A soft smile. She tilts her head in the direction you were walking and shifts so that you can walk past her in the stairwell; grinning yourself, you flit past and take them two at a time. _Maybe_ showing off, but with only one box it’s easy. She walks sedately behind you—with two boxes—slowly taking the stairs, and you wait on the landing for her.

You haven’t said anything else, and she hasn’t said anything at all, but you walk back up to the news-floor together, and when she holds the door open with her back, you smile, “Thanks.”

You’re glad you can see her smile again.

 _Not_ as glad when she returns to the desk just outside Cat Grant’s office, and you find yourself subject to shrewd green eyes—the media magnate is watching you like her namesake, and you are her mouse. The arm of her glasses perched between her lips while she considers you, and for some reason, you think staying absolutely still will make her attention shift away from you. Hands flat on the desk, eyes straight ahead—she eventually scoffs and looks back at the papers on her desk, shuffling them loudly before turning to her monitor and clicking loudly on her keyboard.

You catch the sunglass wearing blonde out of the corner of your eye, and her smile is wider, and her hand has raised to cover her mouth like she’s trying to hide her laugh. She sees you watching and you can make out the grin behind her fingers—you snort and shrug your shoulders in a, _what are you gonna do_ , type of way. She shakes her head and leans forward over the desk, still rolling the rubber band ball from the other day.

She doesn’t show up again for two weeks.

And this time she doesn’t settle—she moves around the room, going in and out of the stairwells, and when she does return, she has two cups of coffee. She’s sipping one, making a little bit of a face, and then tries the other, and seems to decide that’s her cup. You’re only watching her out of the corner of your eye, because you’re currently balancing the bottom left screen in the display behind Cat Grant’s desk—who has moved to the couches across from you so that she can ignore you, and properly glower at you at the same time—it’s impressive really.

Today is the first day she crosses the threshold of glass that encases Cat Grant’s office—walks in like it isn’t the hardest decision everyone in this building has to make a few times in their life. The door’s open already, so she just steps through and sits on the arm of the couch beside Cat Grant—who doesn’t even so much as look up from her paperwork. She just reaches blindly beside her, like she expects a cup to be placed in it—which is it. They haven’t said anything, haven’t made eye contact, but when she takes a sip, her face makes that—that _face_ —that says someone’s about to get fired.

“This isn’t my latte,” she says evenly, but you’ve heard terminations begin with the same blasé tone, “ _That_ is my latte.” The blonde doesn’t accept the coffee back—the _wrong_ coffee—and just keeps sipping the latte in her hold. Foot tapping on the ground, one hand in her pocket—and Cat Grant finally does look up. Sharp eyes skirting the room, passing over you without much intention of noticing you—you’re looking very busy in the corner—and settles her eyes on the blonde.

From behind dark lenses, the nameless blonde stops drinking, and turns to look at the business woman currently tapping manicured nails against a financial report. There’s no conversation for a while, and you’re too busy pretending to not exist that you don’t know what they’re doing—you’re pretty sure your boss _doesn’t_ have laser vision like Superman, but you also aren’t leaving it up to chance. After a minute or two, you’re feeling a little braver, and chance a glance upward.

The young blonde is still perched on the arm of the chair, one leg straight out to keep her balance, the other crooked and—oh no, resting against Cat Grant’s arm. You can see where her thousand dollar blazer crinkles and depresses from what can, _only_ , be Old Navy denims. You can almost see the depreciation of value happening before your eyes. You don’t know if this woman works here, but she won’t be for long. But surprisingly, your boss doesn’t seem to notice the unintentional touching—she must notice, you’re _certain_ she must notice.

She doesn’t care?

“I suppose,” She drawls, “If you wish to get technical, they’re both my latte.” There’s nothing unique in the tone, nothing special or soft, but its how her eyes curve, and her mouth tips slightly into a smile, before evening back out and going back to ignoring everyone in the room, and beyond. Saying, “This one’ll do,” almost to herself, before drinking the _wrong_ coffee. Whoever this woman is, she must have some kind of magic—because you’re certain sorcery it at play here. The screen in your hands is booting up, and the splash screen illuminates—you’re awesome.

Just as you are amidst your self-congratulation, there’s the sudden reflection of someone in the screen, and you yell—okay, maybe closer to a yelp—and let go. It swings by two ribbon cords, and just as it’s about to shatter on the ground, tan fingers are holding it aloft, pinched together on the plastic on the corner. The woman—so close now you can see that her eyes are blue behind the sunglasses, a _beautiful_ blue—is leaning over you. One hand on the desk, her latte carefully placed beside her palm—and the other keeping the screen from dying a cruel death on the floor.

“Dear,” Cat Grant _sighs_ , and you hear the shift of fabric as she leans back on the couch, papers in her lap, “Please don’t rattle the help—Wilbert is very fragile. Like a small child, or a piece of furniture from Walmart.” At least she was calling you a name that started with W; last week she thought your name was Lysander, and while it made you feel like a Game of Thrones character, you also hadn’t known it was _you_ until too late.

“Thanks; that was really—you’re kind of quick.” You think it’s pretty smooth, at the very least, she smiles slightly, and when you take the screen back she sits on the edge of the massive desk occupying most of this side of the room. Content to watch, it seems. You can _feel_ your bosses’ eyes, but you’re doing your best to focus on slotting the screen into the display port, and locking it in with hinges. When you pop it back up and wait for it to sync up with the rest of the displays, you turn to talk to the nameless blonde—

But she’s sitting on the couch beside Cat Grant, who is once again joyfully marking an article with red pen, a small little smirk curling her lips. The woman isn’t leaning on her shoulder, but has curled into her couch companion’s side, one knee brought up, pressing against the body beside her, the other extended and weaved somehow through your boss’ calves, which have shifted to accommodate the unusual posture. Her latte is nearly untouched and getting cold on the desk right beside you, but Cat Grant is mindlessly drinking from the one that she’d commandeered; frowning a little with each sip.

“Quintan, if you’re done gawking,” straightening, you fold your hands in front of you—and then behind you—and the blonde’s shoulders are shaking silently, and—she’s _laughing_ at you. Face pressed into Cat Grant’s back like the media magnate was just—some _person_. “There’s a litany of things you can do out of my sight. That glaring shade of yellow you’ve cocooned yourself in is giving me a migraine.” You cannot leave fast enough—nearly tripping over yourself to get out of the office; you look around the room, but no one is aware of the _weirdness_ happening in the office. No one is willing to look up on the off chance that they’ll be snared by maybe-laser-firing green eyes.

You decide they’re onto something, and avoid looking into the fishbowl of an office for the rest of the day.

You do, however, have to collect the old screen and bring it down to requisitions, and you’ve managed to put it off until the end of hours. The door is still open, and when you knock, there’s a disinterested _hmm_ that is your answer. Quickly stepping around the desk, eyes down, you collect the broken screen, and the accompanying cords, and you are about to escape when—

“Where’re my glasses?” It’s haughty, and annoyed, and said with the effect of someone who wasn’t expecting an answer—you need to leave _now._ Tucking the screen against your chest and dashing for the door, you mentally congratulate yourself for another day unscathed—for the most part. Everyone else has left, and some of the auxiliary lights are going off.

You can see Cat Grant stalking from one side of her office to the other—hands on hips, frown in place. And the nameless blonde is unfurling from the couch, hair tousled, and yawning. She pads across the floor, and the fact that she’s _barefoot_ seems the least strange thing about the encounter. She’s taller than your boss, even in her heels, and she’s smiling—wider than any you’ve gotten, and that little flutter in your chest dims because you know that look.

She lifts both hands, and plucks the glasses off the top of your boss’ head, and gently places them on her nose, looking at a face that is quickly tilting and morphing into one you’ve seen on Cat Grant’s face only when her son’s in the office.

Yeah, you know that look.

Love.


	29. snap shot 29. ( 8, 24, 31, 38 )

**SNAP SHOT (LOIS)**. _Life for a journalist can be daunting; the world is both impossibly big, and infinitely small at the same time. You pick people apart to their smallest mannerisms, and try to define them by things nearly no one else would notice. You're guilty of this. You carve through the characteristics of the world, and try to find fault in everything; not because you're a pessimist, but because you don't like surprises. You don't like the moment everything is pulled back, and you're made the fool._

* * *

In the three years you’ve known Clark Callaghan, you’ve noticed a few things—occupational hazard, really. You notice that his socks never match, and you know _this_ , because he has the habit of taking his shoes off without the slightest provocation. You know he hates Oreos, but loves Nutter Butters; because of the texture of the cookie, not the filling or taste. You know he responds to most text messages with GIFs, and that you used to hate it—but now you kind of look forward to what he has in store.

You know he has the nicest smile you’ve even seen; and you’ve traveled the world, and have seen your fair share of smiles. You know he has Legos on his desk because he has to keep his hands busy when he’s thinking—that stillness is almost impossible with him.

You’ve been _desk buddies_ with Clark Callaghan for over two years, even since you’d returned from North Africa with a broken arm, and a healing concussion. You’d met him a few times before, but it had been fleeting—he was an intern, and then a junior writer, a desk jockey following on the coattails of the other journalist. He hadn’t warranted any special kind of attention—other than thinking about that _smile_ while on fourteen hour plane rides.

You rarely work together, but sometimes when Perry wants _charm_ and _aggression_ , he puts you together. You’re tight lipped sneer, and Clark’s good ol’ boy charm. This is one of those particular cases; a corruption in the research facility on the edge of the city, guards going missing, orders being forged. You have a meeting with the night foreman, a skittish older man who might just be insane. You’d brought the meeting to Clark, and he’d lifted his shoulders in a shrug and said he wasn’t about to go. That he had plans already.

“I’m all yours after, Lou,” he assured, “Promise.”

If only.

You’re seated at one of the few booths left in the _rather_ nice restaurant; the afternoon clatter of the lunch crowd loud enough that you can only hear the fringes of conversation. Except the closest one to you; low voices that are too clear to ignore—

“—he misses you,” you recognize the voice—lower, serious, but curved with a delicate, careful power. It’s from the booth directly behind you, and you’re curious for a moment, but decide it isn’t worth the awkward possibility of eye contact. You’ll see who it is when they leave—you’re source isn’t due for an hour.

“I’m sorry about last weekend,” sincere, sighing, and—you recognize this voice too. A little too nice, a little too soft spoken, like he was afraid to raise his voice—the voice of a man you’ve known for three years. Who pawned off this lead because he had _prior engagements_ that were more important.

Clark Callaghan.

You hadn’t mentioned where you’d be meeting your source, but this restaurant is clear across town—it took two subway rides, a cab, and walking two blocks to get here. Of course, it is one of the classiest restaurants in the city.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” the second voice drawls—a woman, articulate, mature, and confident—you _swear_ you know that voice. Maybe someone else from the Planet? “I wasn’t the one waiting until midnight in Superman pajamas.”

“Now that isn’t fair,” Clark grouses, huffing, but you hear that hint of guilt—the one that tucks itself into his words without his permission. That makes his blue eyes sad and pinched—you’re a journalist, you’re supposed to notice these things. It’s not like you think his eyes are _gorgeous_. “It wasn’t my fault; I had to,” there’s a pause, long and swallowing, “ _Work_ happened. You know that.”

“Which is why I promised him you were coming this weekend—the _whole_ weekend. I know you have off.”

“How the hell would you know that?”

“Do you really think three thousand miles has removed the fear I invoke in the below-average camera monkeys at the Planet?” Blithe, and nearly sing-song. “I have reach, not-so-little heathen. Far and wide.”

A long moment, then a droll, “You asked Perry.”

“I asked Perry,” the voice confirms, and you can _hear_ the smile. Someone that expressive must take phenomenal pictures—if the emotion lives that vibrantly in words, imagine eyes. You’re painting their picture with your mind, but it is making your chest hurt because you picture them as young, and beautiful, and perfect for Clark.

“You know I want to see him; it’s just—harder than I thought. Balancing everything.” A moment, heavy and wide. “Being so far from home.”

“Then move back,” simple, relieved, and this woman would give lives to have him closer—you can read that between the actually spoken words. The way those words lived on the tip of her tongue. “You know there’s always a job waiting for you. You’re being the stubborn one, not me.”

“You know why I can’t,” there’s a exhale, like these are words said before—to someone who matters, someone who means much to him, but there’s— _reasoning_ , and that is always the case with the people that matter. You’ve seen it a thousand times in the _could have beens_ that you’ve chased around the world, the stories of people who would shoulder the sun if it meant another sunrise with those they cared for. “I have a life here now, and—and that’s being human, right? Learning how to balance it all. To, despite everything, become your—”

“I didn’t stop by for the hope speech,” the interruption is more effective than most against Clark’s speeches—rousing as they are.

“It wasn’t a hope speech.”

“It was, you had that look in your eye. If I wanted to cry about the human condition, I’d watch Beaches. Or talk to my therapist.”

“You’re going to therapy again?” Concerned, serious.

“That wasn’t the point of the statement.”

“Might not’ve been the point, but that doesn’t change the question.”

“If you _must_ know,” a long exhale, and the clink of ice cubes; some expensive liquor being tossed back. “Mother was in town for a month; I’m still getting the scent of decay, ash, and misery from the upholstery. Therapy provides an outlet that won’t have you visiting me in a maximum security penitentiary.”

“Come on,” Clark sooths, “You’ve got enough clout to get one of those ritzy minimum security joints; you can weave baskets with Martha Stewart.”

“I’d rather do time at Shawshank.” You _have_ to know who it is—there’s simply no getting around it now. The clues are piling up, and the portrait in your mind is nearly complete—a name on the tip of your tongue. Sliding out of the booth, and walking the long way around the room to sit at the bar, you don’t try to actually face them—but the mirrored back behind the ostentatious display of expensive hard liquor gives you the perfect angle.

You can find Clark easily enough—his bright red plaid shirt does not belong in the upscale restaurant. Hair tussled, and messy—sticking up in nearly every direction—and somehow still mostly hanging in his eyes. His— _not gorgeous_ —blue eyes. He’d tapping a fork against a plate that looks like it had been a steak of some kind, and his knee is bouncing quickly—he does that after sitting for too long. You’ve noticed.

The woman across from him is _tiny_ in comparison—then again, Clark is six foot three, most people are _at least_ small in comparison—and she’s blond. A honey blonde, lighter than the color people usually dye—so it must be natural. She’s wearing cream and beige—someone who is aware of seasonal colors—and her plate has the remnants of some kind of salad. She isn’t facing you straight on, so you can’t see her face—or her age—but that bitter toxicity that burns in your chest is swelling.

That little crumble of insanity that pecks away at your thoughts whenever Clark goes on a date, or sighs romantically over some girl—you’d been relegated to _desk buddy_ pretty quickly. But you blame that firmly on your habitual shoulder punching—hazards of being raised by a military man, sometimes you were worse than a frat boy.

Even though they’re across the table, the way they lean toward each other is telling—you can’t hear them anymore, but something the woman says makes him laugh. The loud surprised laughter you don’t hear often; usually replaced by that close mouthed snicker that made him sound like Gargamel’s cat.

Not a flattering laugh.

You get a text message, and it is your source—cancelling your meeting, for _reasons that can’t be discussed on the phone_ , and you can only roll your eyes. The easily spooked conspiracy types are more slippery than a goddamned fish.

Good thing you have something else to keep you occupied.

You’ve ordered four Long Island iced teas in the time it takes for them to leave; and the bartender is a little heavy handed with the rum. You watch as the strategically dimmed lights swim in your vision, swirling and dipping away, and you’re watching them so closely that you almost miss how his blonde companion turned down the hall toward the bathrooms. Clark watches her go, and then begins frantically flagging down their waiter—obviously trying to pay before she gets back.

Smooth move, Callaghan. Paying for the hot blonde with _clout_.

You don’t know if she’s hot, but her hair was _dazzling_ , and you hate her. Whoever she is. Amidst sipping the last hints of liquid from your fourth Long Island, you suddenly remember you can solve this mystery—something on par with your true journalistic integrity.

You can stalk her into the bathroom.

Clark’s still trying to get the waiter’s attention—resorting to whistling through his teeth—and you’ve tripped over the bottom rung of your stool, and are on your way down the darkened hallway. Past eight pastel colored flower arrangements. You want to tell them that _too many_ is possible, but maybe this is just what rich, well off people with _clout_ like to dine around. Half a thousand pastel colored flowers.

A graveyard of fauna.

Pushing open the bathroom door—she’s right in front of you, using her pinky to fix the edge of her eyeliner. And God, you were right—she’s _hot_. And then the whole set of features swims into focus—sharp green eyes, attractive mouth, lovely cheekbones. A perpetually cocked eyebrow that always somehow hints that you’re both an idiot, and not completely wrong.

Not just a hot blonde.

Cat _fucking_ Grant.

She doesn’t notice you walk in, and you’re not surprised, because you aren’t reflected in the mirror yet. You’d been present when she’d been given the Selden Ring last year—Clark had been present too, and he’d said _nothing_. You’d been shoved forward by Perry on behalf on the Planet, and Cat had that _glint_ in her eye, that just made you feel like a mouse. You’d had a quick, snide conversation through smiles—for the photo op—and had sighed and hoped for next year.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” you work your jaw a little, and the words sound firm—and most importantly, sober. She starts, and nearly slashes across her cheek with her lipstick, before she’s spinning to stare you down. Lips pursed—has her mouth always been that attractive?—and eyes blazing.

“Lane,” drawling your name brings one corner of her lip up into a smirk, “I didn’t—you’re _drunk_.” She interrupts herself, and you don’t like how she’s looking at you—with that _eyebrow_ raised. She looks positively gleeful, and that is never a good sign.

“I don’t know what you’re after, but Clark’s a nice guy—he doesn’t—he doesn’t need someone like _you_ —,” you’ve stepped close enough to poke a finger into her chest, and her eyes are bright and lidded, and—she’s smiling, that quirked little smirk that used to drive you crazy. “Just because you have really nice cheekbones—and your eyes are like—and lips—I don’t care if you’re _hot_ , Clark deserves better than that.”

“Better than hot?” She drawls, and even drunk— _tipsy_ , you correct yourself—you’re surprised she hasn’t pushed you away.

“Yes,” you agree, and somehow your jabbing finger has just flattened against her collarbone, and your frown has gone slightly lopsided, and—her eyes are _really_ green.

The door opens quickly, banging against the wall, and you flinch away a step or two.

Clark looks horrified, and Cat looks amused, both eyebrows up now while she skirts her eyes between the two of you. He steps in hesitantly. They’re even standing _together_ , some kind of unified front that makes you grit your teeth, and you don’t think they make a good couple at all.

“Heathen, I’m leaving, otherwise I’ll miss my flight.”

“You have a private jet; it doesn’t leave without you.”

“Yes, but your girlfriend is drunk, and hitting on me, _and_ she’s not really my type.” She crooks a finger and he obligingly bends down to present—a cheek? “Come next weekend, your brother misses you.” She kisses him twice on the cheek, leaving lipstick impressions both times, before casting a glance your way—shrewd eyes, taking you in, and you shiver. Because it is different than what you’re used to—not hard, or angry. But—cautious.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clark protests, and when you catch his eyes, he glances away; only for Cat to catch him by the chin.

“Well, take your _not_ -girlfriend home,” chucking his chin, you can just make out her whisper of, “untuck your thumb, kid,” before she pats his cheek and walks out of the bathroom. Leaving you both standing in the ladies room. Clark’s eyes have gone soft and round, a little wet at the edges; even if he’s a little blurry.

You’re confused, “brother?”

Clark is rubbing a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew slightly, before righting them and cupping your shoulder, leading you out of the bathroom, and down the hall toward the entrance.

“Yeah, brother.” He smiles, and it’s such a nice smile, soft and kind, and it couples so nicely with the blue of his eyes. You’d swear they sparkle. “You’ve met him—I brought him to the Christmas party last year.”

“Carter?” The boy had been a darling; considerate, happy, shy. It had taken you nearly the whole night to win him over. You’d seen then together, how Clark hovered and worried; orbiting around his little brother like a protective satellite. They wore matching Christmas sweaters with ducks in antlers and glowing noses; you had at least a dozen pictures, because it was far too priceless.

“Yeah, Carter.” A pause, and the hand he’s guiding you with flexes a little. “Carter Grant.”

You stop one foot from the door, and Clark nearly trips over you in his attempt to not bring you crashing to the ground. “Cat Grant—the bane of my existence—is your mother?” You don’t see the resemblance—not even a little—maybe the cheekbones, and the perfect nose. But beyond that—they both have pretty eyes—

“Sort of.” He sidesteps, and finally gets you outside—the air isn’t fresh, but it’s cool, and you breathe deep because your head hurts. And none of this is really making sense. “She raised me though. Her and my cousin.”

You don’t like how his eyes get sad, they tip at the edges, and he fiddles with his glasses because he doesn’t know what to do with his hand. So you lace your fingers through his and pull him a little closer, “Your cousin—have I met him?” You’re trying to remember, but you’re fairly certain you would remember if he’d introduced you to someone that important in his life.

Then again, Cat _fucking_ Grant, had been a surprise.

“No—uh, no.” He swallows, and his fingers hold tighter—almost too tight—to yours, before loosening. He clears his throat, and his shoulders lift with a sigh, “My cousin died before we met—in the attack on National City.”

The attack on National City.

It was the only National City Tribune article that was hanging on the walls of the Daily Planet— _Spectre Dead_ , by Cat Grant. It hung just beside the article that Perry had written years earlier, naming the masked vigilante—the hero he had met more than handful of times, that he still mourned. Who he was constantly comparing Superman to. What had happened in National City was a tragedy, and knowing that Clark’s been sitting beside you this whole time _hurting_ , is a sobering thought.

“I’m sorry,” you say, squeezing his hand.

“Don’t be,” he says, still hurting, but smiling faintly and keeping his hold on your hand tight, “Last time I checked you weren’t a hulking gray space monster.” The walk to the closest subway is ten more blocks

Neither one of you let go.


	30. snap shot 30. ( 3, 19, 31, 33 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK).** _Anger is a cold comfort after a few months; it sits like ice in your chest, turning your blood frigid and slow. It feeds your stubborn nature and closes your eyes to other perspectives. It takes you so long to unravel the intricacies of your feelings, to pull them apart and analyze what remains true in this still. It takes so long; almost too long._

* * *

The National City Police Department calls you at three in the morning—if your alien heart could be stopped by words alone, the severe and low rumble of a beat cop asking, _are you Catherine Grant's next of kin_ , would be near the top of the list.

You’d been asleep, Trevor had stumbled in an hour earlier smelling of marijuana and cheap beer—slurring about how he was being responsible, and that the party was still in full swing. You’d folded in on yourself since Kara’s— _disappearance_ —and he had been pretty good about it. Always inviting you, always accepting that you didn’t want to be dragged to some frat house in the middle of the night for March Madness betting, and wet tee-shirt contests. You’d stared at your ceiling for most of the night, listening to the distance thrum of music, and trying to sort the constellations through the ceiling.

You knew them all—Kara had taught them to you young. When she’d hoist you up onto her back and twirl through the sky; your red bedsheet tied around your neck so that it rippled in the wind. You liked watching the stars from the Hollywood sign; sat right down in the middle of the _W_ without a care in the world. You’d trace constellations on her back, and make her guess—she was always right. It wasn’t until you were a little older than you realized that the glassy look in her eye during those trips was—she was remembering home. _Her_ home, because you had no real connection to Krypton—other than Kara.

“Where to next, superboy?” She’d ask while flinging you in to air, catching you under the arms and twirling until you were properly settled on her back. You always giggled when Cat would call Kara _supergirl_ , because there was always a glitter in green eyes when she did. You’d snort, and rub your small face against the back of her shoulder—adamant and serious.

“ _Man_ , Kar. Super _man_.” Because you weren’t a boy.

She’d laugh and jet off into the night faster than before, spiraling through clouds and so far into the sky you’d reached little arms out, trying to touch the moon.

That had been what you were dreaming about when your phone jolted you awake—the battery was low, at 04%, and the screen dim, but it was impossibly loud from where you had fallen asleep with it on your chest. The police had been concise, and prompt—asking your name, your relation to Cat, and if you would be stopping by the hospital to fill out paperwork. They hadn’t the most up to date information, but what they did know had sent you into a panic—a three car pile-up on one of the highways, a black town car caught between two larger vehicles, and up-righting onto its roof.

“It has your address as in Metropolis; will you be able to come to down to NC General?”

You hadn’t even thought about anything that had transpired before this moment, “I’m in town, actually. I’ll be there within the hour.”

Which is how you found yourself alone in the waiting room outside the operating rooms—your cheeks are wet, and there’s a three year old asleep in your lap, because the babysitter had to go home, and Carter didn’t understand what was going on. He thought his mother was working late, that you had stopped by because you missed him, and when you’d started rocking in the uncomfortable chair, it had lulled him to sleep. His dark head of hair tucked under your chin, his small fingers curled into the stained Henley you’d been wearing to sleep.

You cry quietly, because you don’t want to wake him up—don’t want to explain that his mother is so _damned_ breakable, and that there was nothing you could do. You could just sit here with the clipboard with Cat’s medical information—Catherine Jane Grant, January 30 th, 1975, A+—it was the biographical information that the medical profession used to dehumanize patients, not because they were cold and heartless, but because they cared so much. Flipping the page, you see a section that was filled out already, typed in neatly, and Cat’s signature perfectly scrawled across the bottom—much more legible than her actual handwriting, which was atrocious. Kara’s name is first, but there was a mark beside in red pen that indicated there might be a change in the works—this was how someone went about being deleted from the world.

One form at a time.

But just below her name, is _yours_ —Clark G. Callaghan, medical proxy (secondary agent), son.

It is something you’ve always known—never questioned—but to have it written so plainly in black ink, it twists something fragile and warm in your chest. It hurts you too, because you haven’t spoken to Cat in six months—you missed Thanksgiving, and were a week away from missing Christmas, because you couldn’t determine how you were supposed to dig down into your alien marrow, and forgive her. She’d let you watch your cousin die—the key in her hand that would have given you the chance to help, to do _something_.

She’d unlocked you when the sky had gone dark and quiet, snapping the handcuffs from your wrist and tossing them into the office on the other side of the room. Her eyes had been bright and hollow, and she’d been shaking—but you hadn’t been able to see it then, because you’re world had _imploded_. Had fallen down around your head and left you shaken and numb. You’d blasted off into the night faster than any news camera could catch, and had retreated to Metropolis—ignoring every attempt at communication that had been made.

You’d stopped by for Carter—picking him up from the lobby, and taking him for the weekend. Cat had never forced the issue, and some part of you had taken that as confirmation that she didn’t want anything to do with you now that Kara was gone—no, _dead_. To see _son_ written beside your name was like a fist closing around the hammering beat of your heart—trying to slowly squeeze the blood free, so that you would fill to the brim, and drown in crimson.

“Grant?” A doctor asks to the room, his eyes tired, and his face drawn, and you snap to your feet so quickly Carter mumbles and tucks closer to your neck. You walk closer carefully, a hand pressed to the back of his head, carding through his hair.

“Is she going to be alright?” The words pour free like gravity has wrapped tightly around them and dragged them forth. The doctor begins explaining what had taken place in the operation room—bones that had been set, blood that had been transfused, and nerves that had been repaired. But there was the slightest smile, wan and barely there that gave you hope.

“Barring unforeseen circumstances, your mother should be just fine.”

You are Kryptonian, and you live in the light of a yellow star—this means very little of this planet’s physics apply to you. You’ve known this for nearly your whole life, even if you hadn’t known the particulars. _Your mother should be fine_ , is like an impossible weight has been taken off your martian shoulders—planet sized and threatening to crush you. You bark something that is half-laugh, and half-sob, and press Carter closer to you because feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt stops your hand from shaking.

He smells like Cat—something human, and natural and just under his skin.

“Can I see her?” You ask quickly, because the doctor looks like he’s about to stumble away.

His lips purse, while looking down at Carter, before nodding tightly, “She’s in recovery; there’s a good chance she won’t wake up for a good while.”

And with that you’re left in the care of a nurse with a kind face saying she’ll show you the way to your mother. It is a word you’ve never really used to Cat—not out loud, never out loud—but when you were young you had called her that in your mind. Her and Kara both. Having people acknowledge what she is to you so openly makes your heart thunder, and your eyes to wet—you’re going to shake yourself apart soon if you don’t see her.

And when you do—the part of you that’s a little boy wishes you hadn’t.

Because she’s small, and pale, and broken—her arm in a cast, small delicate fingers stick out of the end—slightly crooked and purpling. Her face is hindered by a nasal cannula, and little metal tipped stickers at her temples. The _beep_ and _whir_ of machines is a sickening soundtrack, but you are grateful for them—because they match the lazy beat of her heart. Hampered by sedatives and painkillers. Her face is bruised, her nose swollen and the bags that usually were under her eyes had darkened like someone had hit her hard in the face and given her two black eyes.

Pulling a chair closer, making sure not to jostle your brother, you hesitate before reaching out for her hand—cool and clammy, and the oxygen monitor on her middle finger almost slips, before you fix it. Swallowing back the sobs that want to break free, you breathe deep, and press your head back against the creaking vinyl of the chair.

“You don’t get to leave me,” you whisper, hoarse and ragged at the edges, “It doesn’t matter how angry I am—you can’t—I can’t lose you too.” Nothing in her face moves, but the slow rise and fall of her chest is a comfort. Smoothing your thumb across the back of her slightly prominent knuckles, you swallow and scoot your seat a little closer.

“I’m sorry I missed Thanksgiving,” you don’t raise your voice, because you’ll be consumed with shame. The ache building in you will fill your lungs and smother you. “I was just so—I was so mad, and I thought you had stopped me from—that I could have done something to help.” It’s so easy to tell the truth when Cat’s unconscious, when you don’t have to sort through the hurt in green eyes. “To save her.”

But—you’re older now, only by a few months, but it feels like whole decades have rushed by without you noticing.

“I shouldn’t have run; I know that—I do.” Pressing your lips together, you lift her hand, to press a kiss there—you’d lean over to put one on her forehead, if you didn’t have a boy cuddled against your chest.

Closing your eyes, you listen to the machines— _beep, whirr_.

“You get that from me,” the voice is like sandpaper and glass, rough and bloody, and your eyes snap open to find mottled green looking at you through a haze of medication and pain. Foggy and unfocused. “Running from your problems. Guess nurture won in this case, heathen.” The smile that spreads across your face is shaking, because another weight has been lifted—you feel no gravity, and you’re sure if you weren’t tethered by the hand to Cat, you’d float away.

“At least Metropolis isn’t a warzone,” you joke, because humor is the only thing keeping you from folding over her and holding her to make sure she’s real.

Cat laughs, but winces like it hurts, eyes going dark and fuzzy at the edges, her face loosening and slackening slightly at the lips. She’s slipping back to sleep, “What can I say,” she murmurs, eyes already closing, “I commit to my decisions ten-fold.”

And she slips back into unconsciousness.

You remain for the rest of the night, coaxing Carter back to sleep every time he starts shuffling around in your lap. Two nurses tried to coax you into leaving, saying they’d call if anything happened that deserved your attention. But you weren’t leaving; you’d sit vigil, because you need to know she’s here. That her heart beats, and her lungs fill with air.

For now, that’s enough.


	31. snap shot 31. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CARTER).** _Sometimes it's possible to carry a ghost that doesn't belong to you; they're woven through your heart, but they aren't yours. They're crafted by the stories told to you, and the emotions in the eyes of others, and through this, you tell yourself who this person is to you. They're both larger than life, and impossible to measure. She's your ghost, and you love her so much._

* * *

Your mother isn’t secretive—not with you, at least—but she’s usually better about keeping things out of your sight that will give her away. Like where exactly she hides your Christmas and birthday presents, or when your father has gotten her mad enough to call the lawyer—it happens more often than you’d like, but they always reconcile over insults and bourbon—or when she’s upset enough to not fold away her tells. The clench of her jaw, the curl of her fingers, the way her foot bounces when she’s sitting down—they’re all indications that something has upended her calm and she’s trying to regain her ground.

She never says it to you explicitly; she smiles, ushering you upstairs to wash your hands before dinner, not letting you leave before she’s kissed you twice on the crown of your head. She tells you that she loves you more often when she’s upset, like she’s reminding herself that whatever is going on—this much is true.

But—this is somehow different.

You hadn’t seen her all day—you’d gotten home from school and there’d only been a message on the answering machine saying she’d be late, that someone was going to be by to watch you—but she hadn’t sounded right. Breathy, and quiet, like she was afraid someone might wake up. She’d told you she loved you three times—you couldn’t see her clenched jaw, but you could almost hear her teeth grind when she spoke.

You figured it had something to do with Clark—with the aliens that had been plaguing Metropolis while you were in school. But you’d already texted your brother, and he’d already told you he was fine—or, in his words, _no stupid alien ain’t got nothing on me_. You’d reminded him that he’s a writer and that he should really mind his double negatives, and he’d just filled your screen with mindless emojis. Your aunt had stopped by not long after eight, with dark eyes and a pensive press to her lips—Alex Danvers wasn’t known for her small talk, but even she usually kept up more of a dialog than what she managed all night.

She’d snagged your mother the moment she walked in the next morning, still wearing the same clothes as the last morning, eyes sunken and red, and you’d pressed against the wall trying to listen. You couldn’t catch most of it, but certain words slipped through— _calm for now, tonight,_ and _won’t sleep_. There was no context, no description, but when your mother had pulled you into her arms, pressing her cheek against yours—since you were too tall to fit under her chin anymore—she’d breathed you in, not hiding it as well as she usually did, but you didn’t squirm, didn’t complain, because the tension in her shoulders eased.

You could do this for her.

“I love you, mom,” you reminded her, because you knew she needed it, and she clasped you between her palms, thumbs brushing under your eyes, before she walked down the hall toward her bedroom. When the shower turned on, you knew she was going to work despite the fact that she obviously had gotten no sleep last night. Sat at the kitchen counter, you spotted her keys—door key, elevator key, lobby key, mailbox key, and—a key you hadn’t seen since last year.

The one that shows up every April around the anniversary of Doomsday’s rampage.

The anniversary of, _mama went up_.

The key to your  _ieiu_ ’s apartment.

Your mother goes over there to clean, and to think, and keep the world away if only for a moment—you’ve been there a few times, when you’d asked where she went. And she’d brought you. Appliances that were constantly being updated and replaced, furniture that still had slight dents from use, and carpets that were one shade too dark for the light colored walls. It’s March, so you shouldn’t see that key—a knowledge that sits heavily in your chest. You finish your cereal, and when the driver buzzes for you to come down, you don’t think about the out-of-season key again until you get home—and the whole keyset is gone, and your mother’s gone to work.

You don’t think about it until you find the spare key in the drawer in the kitchen, and tell the driver that’s always on call that you’re supposed to go to the mid-town apartment. That you’d left something there. He’s new—only a month or two—and doesn’t question your directions, because your mother has obviously already put the fear of God into him. It isn’t far, distance wise, but the buildings get more modern—more glass and steel—than the old-money feel of your own building, which is all architecture and sculpting. Ridiculous lion statues and flying buttresses.

The security guard is new, but the lobby is the same—the elevator still groans on the twelfth floor, and shimmies on the twenty third. The apartment isn’t the penthouse, its three floors below that—but one of two doors in the hallway you step out onto, the quiet is buffeting, but even this high up you can hear the sounds of mid-town in spring. Fingering the key you had shoved into your pocket, the double doors seem much worse a hurdle than they are in actuality—just a twist of the key, and entering the passcode—013075.

Your mother’s birthday.

The door clicks open with no fanfare, the central air humming softly in the walls, and chilling the apartment—too cold for March. All the windows are dark, which is unusual because you’re used to the lack of curtains that this space usually flaunts—floor to ceiling windows from the edge of the living room through the open concept kitchen and breakfast nook. They’re all hidden behind thick curtains that don’t match—browns, and dark blues—and you recognize them from the last two remodels of your mother’s bedroom.

Stepping through the living room is like walking over a grave—there’s paintings on the wall of sunsets and red planets, and there’s empty frames scattered on nearly every surface. You’d asked Clark once about them—and he’d said that your mother hadn’t been able to look at them that first year—and the year after either. And then, she’d never gotten around to putting them back. They’re like invisible reminders of the life that had been lived here—the poorly spackled hole in the wall, the splintering frame to the kitchen pantry.

All the doors are open—to bedrooms and bathrooms, storage closets and offices—and when you walk up the stairs, there’s only two rooms. One is closed right, and the other is—laying haphazardly in the hallway, the wood splintering, little slivers dashed through the plush carpet. There’s a profound _violence_ in the carelessly forgotten door, the ruin of wood, and forgetful placement. Swallowing deep, you step through the dark and come abreast the door, something glittering catching your eye—your name stenciled in large letters across the glossed side of the door.

This had been your room, once upon a time.

There’s no light inside the room, and the first thing you can make out is shattered glass on the floor—from the sun that had been hanging above the bed. Shards of red and yellow dusting the dark gray carpet, like broken teeth and bottle edges. The first one crunches under your sneaker, and you can see how the bookshelf has been tipped onto the spaceship frame holding the bed. You realize this is the only room that hasn’t been subject to your mother’s updates—everything looks like it is from 2005, you can date it by the cartoonish representations of the planets on the wall. Including Pluto.

You can’t remember this room, there’s colorful blurs in your memory where it properly belonged; the places that get fuzzy because you can’t quite track your way back through your mind to find the original memory. You’ve forgotten how to get there. Some nights the fallacy of the human brain cripples you, because one of the most important people in your life is nothing more than empathic stories and colorful blurs. The person who lives in every wall of this apartment, in every empty frame and every curtained window. The person who—

Is standing against the far wall.

You hadn’t noticed her because she is deathly still, the dark of her clothing matching the dark blue of the walls, just as readily as her halo of gold hair mixed to the cartoonish sun grinning from the corner. Her frame is narrow and willowy, like she might simply crack in halves if you turned your eyes away for just a moment—but there’s a _presence_ about her, a _weight_. Like now that you’ve noticed her, the air has thickened and gained density. You know—logically—that this isn’t the case, but your mother and brother are literary snobs and they can’t just _tell_ a story, they have to _describe_ it. And all the feelings. And all the metaphorics.

She’s looking right at you, eyes at half-mast and face slack, and you can’t help seeing Clark in her face—the brow, and the chin, definitely. The wide radius of her orbital sockets, and the strong line of her mandible, but there are differences too—she’s smooth curves and gentle slopes, where Clark is angles and edges. Lean, and thin, and slender. The clothes she’s wearing are baggy and—your mother's. The reindeer sweatshirt she wore the Christmas you bought it, and then swore would never see the light of day. And silk black pants that are supposed to be “casual” clothes, but your mother usually forgot what that meant in the middle of sweeps week.

“Mama,” you say, and your voice shudders, tripping and splashing from your mouth because your heart is picking up, the ache in your jaw saying you’d already started clenching your teeth even though you didn’t realize it. She doesn’t react—and you realize she isn’t looking _at_ you, she’s looking _through_ you. You don’t know how you can tell, it’s impossible to say, but she’s unmoving and unblinking, and it’s unnerving. This woman has lived inside you your whole life, she frames choices, and influenced outcomes, but you can’t really remember her.

She’s watercolors and symphonies.

She was an idea more than anything—Clark’s whole world, and the love of your mother’s life—and she was your mama, your _ieiu_ , even if you hadn’t been able to draw her face for art class, or describe the exact shade of her hair. In your family portraits growing up, she was the sun—bright, and present, and watchful. She was the language that lives in your lungs and heart, the slow exhale of words because they were so much _calmer_ and _thoughtful_ than English, or French. Whenever your nerves would blister, and the world would throb, you’d sit in your room—the lights off—and begin the slow dissection of the world.

 _Giv_ —ball. _Divih_ —light. _Tahseg_ —bed. _Kahril_ —door.

 _Ieiu_ —mother.

“ _Ieiu,_ ” you say instead, words already quivering with tears that you can’t stop, because you don’t know when they started. She doesn’t move, but she’s suddenly looking _at_ you—and you don’t know how you simply know that. Nothing about her changes, no movement, no shift of person or fabric—but she’s suddenly _present_. “ _Rraop nahn otem_ ,” you’re mad at yourself because you can’t remember the feminine version of _you_ , so you resort to using the formal gender neutral one.

 _Rraop_ —you. _Nahn_ —are. _Otem_ —back.

Maybe she is the sun, and you’re just a satellite that’s drifted far too close—because you’re walking into the room, crunching through shattered glass, past ruined shelves and splintering wood—until your arms are wrapped around her middle. Your cheek pressed to her chest, and when you squeeze there’s no give—she’s solid, and firm, and there’s no human softness to her. Not like hugging your mother, or even hugging Clark, which is when you realize what a fundamental difference there is between what your brother—and this woman—are, and humanity. Something universal, and subjective both.

Maybe she’s just forgotten how?

When you pull away, you can only go so far because two of her fingers have curled into the fabric of your shirt—you hadn’t even felt her move—but you smile, because even if she’s still looking at the doorway, she’s holding onto you. Keeping you close. “I don’t know where you’ve been,” you whisper, nearly inaudible, even to your own ears, “But I’m glad you’re home. _Zehdh_ ,” You’d seen the news clip every year on the anniversary of the tragedy—the Spectre wrapped around the monster, glowing green and atomic, until they’d both vanished in a blaze of nuclear power in the atmosphere. Scientists put out a new documentary every few years on what _could_ have happened, and each one was drastically different than the one before it.

 _Zehdh_ —home.

Taking a step back—or trying—you can’t go far until the fabric of your shirt starts to tear, her hand still loosely at her side—but just the half curl of two fingers is enough to rend the cotton of your shirt. Reaching down and wrapping your hand around hers, it’s startling to realize her hand isn’t much bigger than yours. The palm narrow, but the fingers long—sinewy and thin—you mother would call them _pianist hands_.

“We’re gonna go over there,” you tip your head toward the doorway opposite the one to the hallway, but she isn’t even facing it—this time when you move away, her arm is slack and moves with yours, and when you step away, she follows. It is an unsure shuddering step, jolting and knob kneed, and you can’t help frowning when her foot crunches through glass. “ _Krop nahn kehgier vav ehkwetahn,_ ” you _know_ you’re butchering the language’s grammar, but the sentiment is pretty solid— _steamroll on,_ as your mother would say.

The bathroom is smaller than the others in the apartment, but it’s all dark marble and solid walls—a bathtub takes up much of the room, and when you leave her standing in the middle of the bathroom, you know exactly what you’re going to do. You don’t know where the linen closet is, or where the spare blankets are—so you strip beds of their quilts, and pillows. When you step back into the bathroom, she’s moved—turned to face the door, like she’d been waiting for you to come back, even though her eyes are far away—can she even see you? Or is she drifting through the stars?

Piling the blankets in the bathtub, you coax her forward until she’s sitting against the corner. It took a lot of tugging and pushing, but eventually she’d just folded in on herself, arms and legs curling until she was nothing more than a ball of poorly made sweater, and silk pants.

 _“Ehkov,_ ” you press two fingers below the curve of her eye, “blue.” They remind you of the sky painted on your ceiling, dark, and distant—alien. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but you know she’s following you—it is in the shiver of her pupils. Know she’s returned from the stars.

“Remember?” You ask because her eyes have lived in your dreams for years—not when you’re falling asleep, and not through the night. But just as you’re waking up. When the world is foggy, and the years bleed together like a painting left out in the rain—you’re three, and five, and thirteen all at once—and you remember her eyes. Like Clark’s, but older—sadder—full to the brim in a way you don’t think there’s a word for.

Your mother would have a word for it.

You thought she’d be bigger—considering how Clark describes her—but she’s small in the corner of the bathtub, and you’ve piled every blanket in the house on, and around, her. She doesn’t move when you’re folding and tucking them, and just watches you quietly. This is what your mother would do for you—when the world seemed big, and bright, and loud. The only light is the reflections of the city through the small window—splashes of blue, and red, and gold against the back of the door. She’s leaning her cheek against the wall, ear pressed flat against the dark marble, and she’s simply following you with her eyes, even though they aren’t moving—and that would usually bother you. Dig under your skin and make you itch, but there’s something—serene about her.

Something that feels like home.

 _“Thron_ _,_ ” you say, pressing your hands against the blankets above her feet, “Blanket.” She doesn’t even blink, not once—but beneath your hand, her foot moves. Shifts until the sole is pressed against your leg—untucking the covers just enough that you can feel the alien heat of her skin. She lowers her chin just slightly, nose against the fabric, and inhales—it isn’t as simple as breathing, it’s long and slow. Like she’s trying to pull something inside herself, to keep it there where it can’t escape.

“Mom doesn’t know I’m here,” you are still whispering, because you want her to stay here, want her to be present, and with each word you’re afraid she’ll slip away. “So if you can, like, not tell her? That’d be pretty cool.” You’re speaking in English, but she’s still looking at you, and she actually blinks—it’s too slow, like she knows what it’s supposed to look like, but it’s awkward and unfamiliar. Half her face is obscured by the blankets over her knees, but you’re still piling in the pillows from the beds like somehow it’ll keep her safe.

“She does this for me when—when I’m nervous,” you’re explaining, even though she hasn’t asked, filling the silence, “I like feeling secure, and—and I thought you might like it too.” Like being hugged, but with none of the crawl that came with skin contact; none of the itch that came with someone being too close. The weight and warmth help you come back to yourself, it lets you sort through your thoughts—tuck them away into the appropriate boxes. You wonder if she puts her thoughts in boxes too—you’re sure she’s the one who showed you how. Explained it softly and quietly when you were young; and your mother had just caught on, had embrace it wholly.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting with your back against the opposite side of the tub when she moves—it’s slow and careful, like she’s worried what will happen if she moves too much. Half the blankets are pushed away, folding in and over themselves until there’s a spot clear of them—you’re worried she doesn’t like it, that it’s making her claustrophobic. And when you shift to help pull them away, she just looks at you—stares, and it’s the most engaging look she’s given you. Like she recognizes you suddenly when she hadn’t been able to before. You sit back a little, and when you seem to settle, she shifts her un-blanketed shoulder slightly and settles back.

You don’t understand.

Until you do.

 _“Otem_?” You ask, though you don’t expect her to answer, and she blinks—and smiles. Slow, like each millimeter takes a thought to translate onto her face. Like she’s remembering what it looks like. She has a pretty smile; small, and soft, and unsure. And you don’t need any more invitation before you’re climbing over the mountain of pillows and blankets, and tuck yourself into her side. She’s not warm—she’s hot, like she has a fever—and you think it must simply be biology, because Clark runs hot too. Pulling the blankets back up, you’re able to warm off the chill from the central air, and the ridiculously cold March weather.

She moves so slowly, and you’re so tired, that you don’t realize she’s pressed her nose into your hair, inhaling deep like she had the blanket—like it’ll help her remember—her arm wraps around your shoulder, keeping you against her torso, like she’s trying to curl around you, to keep you close. You’re losing minutes, your eyes heavy and determined to fall—and you are warm, and comfortable, and your heart sluggish.

You’re home, because she’s home.

“I love you, _ieiu_.” You murmur into her shoulder, words long and drawling because you’re not sure which language you say them in—and you’re asleep a moment later.

In the morning, she hasn’t moved—eyes still half-open, the strangest purpling bruising below them, but no more tired than before. When you see the sun through the bathroom window your heart drops because you weren’t supposed to stay all _night_ —your mother must have already called the cops, sent out a search party, burning the city to the ground, but when you jerk awake, something clatters off you and onto the floor—your mobile. She doesn’t move when you lean away to grab it, and wonder how it had gotten out of your pocket—it’s ten o’clock in the morning, and swiping the screen, the first thing that pops up in a text message conversation.

With your mother.

The last text is from you, and it’s a picture—you’re asleep, your head tucked under your _ieiu_ ’s chin, her eyes diverted, your hand curling in the cheap fabric of her bright red sweater. It doesn’t look like a selfie, but she must have taken it while you were asleep—to let your mother know where you are. Turning to look at her, she’s carefully looking forward, like she isn’t aware that you’re moving around, that you’re even _there_. You don’t take the far-away look in her eyes personally, she’s someplace else right now—she’ll come back eventually.

The sounds of a pot clattering in the kitchen _does_ worry you.

 


	32. snap shot 32. ( 14, 26, 28 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK).** _You’d inherited Cat’s temper. Quick to burn, and quick to extinguish. You didn’t have the ability to hold a grudge like she does, but you stew in your anger—the sold and distant kind it turns into after the flash in the pan moment that ignites it. You’re stubborn and difficult, and when you think you’re right—you’re right. Even when you’re wrong._

* * *

“Sulking isn’t going to make anything better,” you hadn’t heart her come in, and it startles you, because you aren’t used to being surprised. Cat puts her purse down on the counter, it _thunks_ because she doesn’t seem to be unable to keep her work _at work_. Every notebook, paper, and reference guide mindlessly shoved into the depths at the end of her shift—you can hear it shift and crinkle when she releases it and the bag immediately topples over onto the counter. “And honestly, heathen, you have too sweet a face to brood.”

Cat’s hair is piled on the top of her head, held there by a clip that was missing two prongs—her pale blue button down shirt is wrinkled and the sleeves rolled hastily to her elbows. You think she might be losing weight, but you can’t say for sure—it’s in how thin her wrists are, how slender her forearms. There’s smudges of ink on her fingertips, and one along her jaw you know is from the ink on her thumb; from how she holds her chin while thinking. You know she left the house earlier with at least another layer of clothing on, but you know they’ve probably been relegated to the bottom drawer of her desk at work.

“I’m not brooding,” you insist, chin on your fist, arms folded on the island counter, “And my face isn’t too sweet.”

“Ah, ‘fraid it is, baby boy. Sweet—bordering on adorable,” she exhales like this is some horrible discovery, “A shame, I had such high expectation for you; and now the world won’t be able to look past your good looks and pensive brow. You’ll dye your hair blonde, pick up surfing, and work at Hollister.” She’s not even looking at you, too busy routing through the fridge for something to drink—you’d drank the last of the bottled water, which she’s just finding out, and the only thing left was Cranberry Juice which she insisted she loved, but in reality, hated.

You didn’t get it.

“Sorry,” you say preemptively, as she closes the door and puts the cranberry juice bottle on the island between you.

“You’re the worst roommate,” she gripes, and shoves your head, green eyes going serious, and lips pinching like when she gets her headaches—the ones that make her squint, that make her blink rapidly and dim the lights. “It’s been three weeks; when are you going to talk to her?” She’s cornered you a few times—made your skin itch and crawl because you don’t want to _think_ about it. Like if you ignore it, everything with just go away—it’s childish, and untrue, but it doesn’t make you want to believe it any less.

“Never,” you return.

“Stop being a child,” sterner, softer, Cat Grant is her most dangerous when she’s speaking softly. “She asks about you every day.”

Like a javelin to the heart. “That isn’t fair.”

“And neither is punishing her for something you don’t understand,”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Clark.” Her saying your actual _name_ is your first warning, the finger she’s tapping against the counter is your second. “You haven’t given her a chance to explain, you’ve been mopping around my apartment for the last month with the proverbial black cloud above your head. Which I’ve allowed, but I’m reaching the end of my patience.”

“Are you kicking me out?” You can’t keep the hurt from your voice, and she even flinches, rubbing at her face for a moment before sighing and coming around the counter. There’s more black ink of her face from the edge of her palm, but she’s looking up at you like she’s trying to tell you something with her eyes alone.

“No, I’m not.” She presses a palm to your cheek and smiles, the one that isn’t particularly wide, that’s slightly crooked because there’s no one to impress—it’s the smile just for you. Even Kara doesn’t get it too often because you know it makes Cat uneasy; she thinks it makes her lips look too thin. “You know you can stay as long as you need; you’ll always have a room here.” She’s talking softly, and the danger with Cat isn’t always anger and sneers, it’s how damned pliant she makes you when she’s caring; it makes you feel too good, that you fold without thinking. “But your cousin is hurting, and she won’t force the issue.”

“She’s a liar, Cat.”

“She’s only human, Clark.”

You frown, and lean away, “She really isn’t.”

“In the ways that really matter? She is.” Her forehead is pressing against yours, and usually you would shy away from the contact, because you’re _fourteen_ and almost an adult, and don’t need your parents getting all emotional and touchy. But her eyes are soft, and she’s breathing slowly, and it helps calm the tripping jitter in your muscles. “She’s afraid, heathen. She’s trying her damned best, and deep down she doesn’t think it’s ever good enough. If that doesn’t sound human, I don’t know what does.”

“Do you know?”

She sighs, leaning away to smile sadly at you, “Enough. Not everything.”

Looking down at where your hands are curled in your lap, you try to stoke the anger inside of you that had existed that night after the fire—when you’d looked at Kara and had convinced yourself you couldn’t recognize her. That she was some stranger inhabiting the body of the person who meant so much to you—the person you tried to be, but always felt like you fell short.

“Listen, baby boy, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once.” Patting your cheek, and sliding away, sock covered feet padding against the tile, heel barely touching the floor—but that isn’t unusual in someone used to wearing heels. “When I found out? I did not react—well. Imagine the worst reaction, and then add seven-thousand miles.” You _knew_ Cat’s impromptu relocation to the Middle East wasn’t just because it was an _amazing job opportunity_. They’d both played it off as no big deal—separately, because they hadn’t been able to look each other in the eye. You’d asked Kara once or twice, and she’d shuffled the point off base with awkward questions about girls in your class and who _broke the banister_.

“I knew it,”

“Yeah, yeah.” She snarks, “But it wasn’t because of what the truth actually was—I didn’t love your cousin any less when I found out. I didn’t love you any less.” There’s that faraway look in her eye, the one that seems to exist despite her best attempts at abolishing it. Like she’s justifying things to herself, things she wouldn’t ordinarily consider, but for some reason—now, she was. “It was because I felt like an idiot—all the things I’d noticed over the years, all the questions I had; I pushed them all down deep, because I thought I knew some fundamental truth that superseded all the facts and theories piling up.”

Maybe you don’t want to know, but you can’t stop now, “What truth?”

“That I was special, that I had some piece of her that no one else did.” Cat clears her throat, and her arms cross loosely across her chest, chin tipped slightly upward—the stance she gets when she’s considering throwing a punch. “And I did—just not that piece. Didn’t make what I had any less important—just different. But our situations aren’t the same—”

You interrupt, “Because you two have sex”

“Yes— _no_.” She looks appalled, and horrified, and glowers at you for a moment. “Remember that nice thing I said about not loving you any less? I take it back.” Leaning her neck this way and that, her neck pops and her shoulders roll forward, “Moral of the story—go talk to your cousin. You’re not really angry at her,”

“I think I kind of am.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve seen you angry, Clark. This moping about with sad music and closed curtains? That isn’t anger. So, why don’t you turn off the Evanescence, open a window, and go for a walk across town? I know she’s at the Apple today. Something about a book fair for the underprivileged, or whatever—you know how she gets with charity.” You know Cat is just as involved in charity—you know she’s probably purchased half the books for whatever Kara has planned, but she doesn’t like admitting how big her heart is. How much she cares.

“And if I don’t like what she has to say?”

“You can come back here and wallow in your teenage angst, unhindered. As long you bring a case of water with you,” she points out, turning on her heel and walking down the hall toward the shower. “And really listen, please.” She says over her shoulder before her bedroom door closes, leaving it up to you whether or not you’re going to leave.

It isn’t that far of a walk.

And it is nice outside.

The security guard in Cat’s building offers to call you a car service to bring you across town, but you wave it away. You need to clear your head. It is warm out, and you can finally justify being outside in a tee-shirt—Kara usually tackles you with a jacket, because it didn’t matter that you couldn’t _feel_ the cold, you had to pretend anyway. The sun is bright, and you feel how it sink into your skin—warm, and comforting—you’ve always been an afternoon guy. When the breeze is cool, and the sun high, still just a little bit of day left before the quiet of night.

The Bruised Apple is on the harder side of town—where cars have mismatching doors, and there’s always the distant yelp of sirens. Friends gather on stoops and along curbs instead of food courts and cafes. You’d never noticed until Kara had enrolled you into the private school on the other side of town—one too many close calls with James Nidor, the mouth-breather that tormented you when you were six—and eight—and ten. When you had been about to make the transition to middle school, Cat had _suggested_ —brow beat—that you transfer to the school she’d gone to.

“What’s good, New Balance?” One of the curb dwellers ask with that crooked smirk curling the edge of his lip—just enough stubble to make him look older, though you know he’s only a year or two your senior. He steps off the stoop five buildings down from the bookstore; his three friends fall in behind him and you sigh while shoving your hands in your pockets. Rich was one of the more well-known troublemakers in the neighborhood, a boy-almost-man clambering to make headway with the gangs infesting this side of town. “Haven’t seen you in a day.”

“I’ve been pretty busy, Rich. School work and all; which I know is a totally novel concept.” Exhaling, and glancing past him at the storefront—you can see the book cart that gets left outside during business hours, a hand written sign proclaiming _2 for 5_.

“Too busy for your cousin?” He asks, stepping a little closer, and the smell of his cologne is nauseating—but his words surprise you enough that you can talk around the noxious fumes wafting off him.

“What?” You want to laugh at the obvious joke, but his dark eyes are serious—his _pose_ closing in around him. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“Got me a part time job at the Apple, marking off my community hours—she’s a real nice lady, New Balance.” He’s pressing two fingers to your shoulder and shoves—and you have to remind yourself to take a step backwards. “She been real down recent-like; and it got me noticing that my favorite walking-blazer ain’t been seen ‘round here. Coincidence, right?”

They’re—protective? And it throws you off, because while you know the Bruised Apple has been something of a neutral grounds to all the mischief and chaos—thanks to mister Callaghan—you hadn’t really thought too much into it since he’d passed away. You spent most of your time in mid-town, only making the trip here when Kara was settling the order, or helping with stock. Maybe a few times a month? But the way the teenagers bristle and look at you expectantly lets you know how much happens just out of your attention.

You’d been too busy thinking about electives, and essays—about girlfriends and homecoming. All the while your cousin has been slowly reaching out to the down and out.

“Richard,” you don’t notice her until she’d standing only feet away, arms crossed loosely across her stomach, face puckered into a frown of disappointment. Rich looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and smoothly slides away from you and toward your cousin. “You promised,” she reminds softly, and he looks— _embarrassed_.

“I know, miss Callaghan.” He mumbles, shuffling his Nikes with an _aw shucks_ mentality, before brightening and grinning at her, “Was just gonna knock some sense into your boy; keep him honest, you know? Defend your honor?” Kara smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to do better— _be_ better. And it suddenly doesn’t seem at all unusual that she’s helping these lost boys.

That’s what Peter Pan does, right?

“While that’s really very noble of you, my honor will live to see another day.” Fist extended, the teenager knocks knuckles with her in what is really a pretty complicated fist-bump—there is palm slapping, and finger locking, and when it was over she demurs, “I expect you bright and early tomorrow, the summer stock came in.” She taps his cheek with a knuckle, and starts to turn back to the store. Her eyes landing on you—she’s chewing on her bottom lip, and she’s shoving the glasses that’ve slid to the edge of her nose further up until she scrunches her face and they settle properly. “Do you—do you want to come in?”

You can only nod—because you feel drained of words. Not because of Rich, or because of anger—they’re just…not there. You feel lighter than air, and empty in a way that wasn’t good, _or_ bad. Just kind of— _is_. It’s the strangest feeling, and you can’t recall ever feeling like this before. Like pieces of you aren’t exactly part of you—that your heart thunders, and your muscles shake—and none of it is in your control.

There are boxes and stacks of books everywhere, and the bubble wrap and peanuts from the shipment litter the floor in a messy line toward the basement stairs beside the counter. Kara’s standing off to the side, arms crossing and uncrossing, and you’re not used to her being unsure around _you_. She’d dressed for the office, though she’s already started picking apart the costume—because that’s what it feels like sometimes, a costume. The starched collar, and pressed skirt. The laminated security badge shoved in her pocket instead of clipped to her lapel. The heels you know she’d been wearing at work have been replaced by flip flops, the kind she bought in bulk from Old Navy.

“Are we vampires?”

Silence.

You hadn’t actually meant to say anything, but it had just— _tripped_ out of your mouth. Kara blinks, face settling somewhere between confusion and surprise. You’d been thinking about it—the things you knew, the truths that you’d accepted as normal without actual explanation—strength, speed, unbreakable skin. Google had only been so helpful, and it wasn’t like you had any kind of ancient mystical texts to check your facts in—this wasn’t Buffy, it was real life.

So—you made an educated guess.

“What?” She asks, chin tipping, “Vampires?”

“I like werewolves better, but that doesn’t make sense.”

“But, vampires _do_?”

“As much sense as any of this can manage,”

“No,”

“No, it doesn’t make sense?” You’re confused.

“No, we’re not vampires?” _She’s_ confused.

Both of you huff and cross your arms, looking away into the dark of the isles, as if the answers to this conversation lurk there somewhere. You can hear how her finger taps against her forearm, how she shifts and tilts her weight to lean against the counter, the quiet groan of wood. She’s cast into shadow, and you can only just make out the contour of her face—cheekbones and nose, lips and eyes. And it’s like she’s shaking something from her shoulders, like she’s stepping away from whatever she’s pretending to be.

It was easier to notice when you were younger—all those stupid little differences that no one else was looking for, that seemed impossibly important at the age of six. How her finger always tapped against her arm—matching some nearby heartbeat—how her eyes would get hazy and far-away, because she wasn’t exactly present. She forgot more when you were young—like the disguise wasn’t as good—and it had seemed horribly embarrassing then. When classmates would mock and joke, when they’d whisper _freak_ and shove your chair—it didn’t take much to make children cruel.

“I was watching a documentary the other day—all about what would happen to civilization after humanity. To the tallest buildings, and the bridges, and the baseball stadiums.” She’s uncrossing her arms, fingers extending and flexing before pressing them down against her thighs. “How they’d all just crumble, and break, and—and the planet would take everything back, you know?” You don’t know why her brows are furrowing, or why her fingers are rucking up the fabric of her skirt into her fists.

Knuckles going white.

“It was all about how nature always wins—in the end, a century or two down the line, it doesn’t matter about over-population, or fossil fuels. It’ll all just fall apart and the world will fix itself. Humanity the sickness that just needs to be burned away with a global fever.” You take a step closer, because you feel a severity in the air you don’t like—that you’re not used to feeling around Kara—but her eyes are sad. Bright, and glossy—but _sad_. And even when you had been angry that night, something inside you had shuddered at the look of pain in her face when you’d said you wished she wasn’t your cousin. She takes a deep breath, and on the exhale, she continues.

“We’re from Krypton.”

You blink, “The element?”

“No, it’s—,”

You interrupt, a bad habit you don’t often admit to having, “Is that a country?”

“No, it’s—,”

Again, “A city? That doesn’t explain how we can—,”

“Clark!”

You stop. You’re standing maybe two feet from her, and she’s leaned forward and away from the counter, her hands spread, her jaw clenched, but her eyes are hidden by the reflection of her glasses. “Nature doesn’t always win, Clark. Sometimes—sometimes too much has happened, too much has been chipped, and ruined, and broken down, and there’s nothing left to take back. Nothing left to salvage after the fever,” The slightest shift of her weight reveals her eyes, slants her back into the shadows, but that has never been a concern for you. You see the wetness in her eyes, and the determined flare of her nostrils. “Krypton is a planet.”

How jaw works, and she whispers the next words, “ _Was_ , a planet.”

 _Planet_. Bigger than a city, or a country. And you watch her for the signature signs of her lies—she’s really pretty bad at them—there’s nothing there. No jittery twitch in her fingers, no flicker of her eyes—nothing. She’s firm, and present, and _sad_.

“I held you for the first time on Krypton, you were heavier there—you were so small, and you wouldn’t stop wiggling around, and I was worried I was going to drop you.” She’s set her hands in front of her like she’s remembering something—remembering holding you as an infant. You’re trying to _digest_ the information she’s telling you—and you aren’t—you don’t feel upended. Because you’d spent the last month looking up myths, and legends, crawling through the darkest edges of the internet looking at pictures of Chupacabras and Big Foots.

Alien—well, alien hadn’t made the list.

“But your father sat me down, showed me how to hold you—told me I was going to be the best cousin there’s ever been. In any of the worlds; and there are a lot.” She’s swallowing, and smiling, and while it isn’t happy, it isn’t sad either. Like she’s accepting this open aching part of her long ago, this wound that won’t scab over because there will never be enough time to sooth the ache of losing a _planet_. “And—two days later, Krypton was gone. Just like that.” There isn’t anything _just_ about what she’s saying, about the obliteration of a whole planet—a whole _people_.

 _Your_ people.

“But this is your home— _our_ home, and I love it. I really do, and I’ll do everything I can to protect it,” She steps closer, and when her arms open slightly you don’t stop how your body gravitates toward her—falling into her embrace like you’ve always done. As a child she had felt like the only solid thing in this brittle world—the one thing you could wrap your arms around and squeeze. And it’s still true now. “I lost so much that day—so much—but I gained you. And I can’t regret that, I can’t say I’ll take it back, and that makes me so selfish.”

Kara’s sobbing into your hair, and her arms are tight across your back, you can hear the rattling hiccup of that valve in her lungs—the thing that makes her different than any other person on this planet. Except you. _Kryptonian_. You don’t know what that means, but right now it just feel like a name to the truths you’ve known for a while—to the sadness in Kara’s eyes. The title card to the tragedy she carries in her bones like marrow.

“It’s why you never let me call you mom,” you murmur into her shoulder, and she only squeezes you tighter, “you feel guilty. But Kara,” you pull away slightly, just enough to see her face, “you’re only twelve years older than me. You—you were just a kid when it happened.”

The way she snuffs a laugh makes you wonder how many times she’d reminded herself this exact fact—that she was a _child_. And you’re—a child too. You hadn’t been able to think beyond saving Ashley’s uncle in that house fire—hadn’t been able to think about what would have happened if you’d have been wrong. If you hadn’t come out. What would’ve Kara done if you hadn’t come home? Or Cat? Sniffling yourself, you press your eyes into her shoulder and hug her tighter.

“I just wanted to help,” you whisper.

She replies, just as softly, “I know. Me too.”

Extending you out with both hands on your shoulders, she wipes at her face with the sleeve of her shirt, awkwardly rolling her shoulder until her face is generally void of tear tracks. Putting her glasses on the counter behind her, she grins slightly—and in a gust of wind, she’s gone—dust kicking up and papers howling through the air.

You bracket a forearm across your eyes, and when you lower it Kara’s gone, and someone—some _thing_ —is in her place. The _Spectre_. You’ve seen glimpses on television, and the occasional photo printed in magazines. Dark grays and pale grays, rough fabrics meeting solid looking metals and plastics. Kara’s only an inch or two taller than you, but she’s thin, but somehow the slant of fabric makes her look more intimidating. _Dangerous_. There’s a thick fabric pulled up over her nose and mouth, and you can catch a flash of blue eyes before they sink into some artificial looking darkness where the top half of her face should be. When she walks forward, she’s still absolutely silent—no creak in the board, no groan in the wood. You realize she’s floating, ever so slightly, just above the ground.

Your heart skips a beat, and your muscles tense on instinct—you can’t even _fathom_ what is happening in front of you. Kara—is the Spectre. Kara—your cousin—the grinning scientist, slash bookstore owner, is a vigilante. _The_ vigilante. Who hung out with Batman, and Wonder Woman, and—you can’t even _think_. You must take a step back, because she does too—and the sudden groan in the wood lets you know she’s subjected herself to gravity once more. While you’re _aware_ you can fly, you aren’t good at it—it isn’t second nature to you like it is to your cousin.

“No one was born on Krypton—flirting with destruction meant nothing could be left to chance. So children were made, _hatched_ —the bloodlines of the great houses continued—and each child had a purpose. To be a judge, or a scientist, or a teacher, or—or a soldier.” The way her shoulders straighten out, roll back and settle easily into alignment makes you frown, because you didn’t know Kara had posture like that. She curls in on herself, fumbles and demurs. But this one screams _authority_ , it sneers _power_.  “You were the first, Clark; the first child born naturally with no—no predestined purpose. You were free to be whatever you wanted to be.”

Gloved fingers move to lower the hood over her crown of gold hair, the mask pulled off her face—and below her masks, she’s smiling softly at you. Wide, and bright, and broken, and you love her so _damned_ much. “You’re so young, Clark. And I’m—I’m scared. Because in this way you’re more like humans than you are me—because they choose every day, and—and sometimes they choose wrong.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug, and her smile is kind of a grimace, and you want to hug her—even despite the armor she is wearing. “Whatever it is, I’ll support you. I will. But—can you give me a little while? You’re my—you’re my—I worry, and when I worry I itch, and get unreasonable, and—

“I love you, mom.”

Kara blinks, startled, but responds, “I love you too. But I’m not—”

“Just this once,” you are hugging her now, and it’s awkward, and plastic is jabbing into your ribs, and the fabric is rough, but she’s still _Kara_.  She still knows exactly where to put her hand on your back to make you feel better, “I don’t know my parents—and I want to—but you raised me. I was a douche, and I’m sorry. And I love you.”

Even _you_ strain under the pressure of how her arms tighten. “I love you too.” There’s something in the way she says it this time, a weight or placement of emphasis. It means something different than what she says when you leave for school in the morning, or go to the movies with Cat. Its chest deep and solid; far away and present all at the same time.

“What are you?”

“What?”

“You said everyone on Krypton was predestined to be something. What are you?”

Her smile is a spilling glass—like watching a tragedy unfold—and seeing your cousin’s face surrounded by the harsh thick fabric of the Spectre’s uniform is still startling. “I don’t know.” A gloved hand raises to tap over her heart, her fingernails clicking against the hard material lined into the fabric. “I wasn’t old enough when I left for my parents to explain everything to me—I just…I have this feeling in my chest. This _need_ , and I can only guess. But it’ll only ever be that—a guess. I don’t know what I am.”

She may only have a guess.

But you know.

“A hero,” your smile makes her frown, and it’s the awkward expression that makes Cat poke her in the forehead, “You were destined to be a hero.” She laughs, and a tear escapes, rolling quickly down her chin until it’s gotten lost in the fabric around her neck.

“I don’t think that we had heroes on Krypton,” her voice is thick, but she’s smiling.

“Well, here on earth? We’ve got this pretty awesome one in National City—maybe you’ve heard of them. The Spectre?” You grab the most recent National City Tribune, and the front cover is what’s usually on the front cover—a gang bust made possible by the Spectre. There’s a grainy image at the corner, small because it’s of such bad quality.

Flipping the page around to look at, you consider the article—the _good_ that your cousin is doing. And while before you might have felt like you were still falling short somehow—now, you only feel pride. “Personally, I think they need a cape.”


	33. snap shot 33. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**.  _You have to remind yourself that impossible is a construct of the mind, that there is no clear division of what is and isn't possible. Living amongst humans has edged your expectations some, because their lives are so self-involved and forward. The world around them is defined by their place in it. The impossible; well, very rarely does it happen when you expect it to._

* * *

You can still feel Cat’s lips like a brush against your own—she’s snagged you before you’d run off, had curled fingers into your lapels and kept you captive if only for the time it took to uproot all the need you felt to leave—the prick at the back of your neck that said something was _wrong_. The sting in your nostrils. Your disaster of a first date had gone off with _every_ hitch attached, and still you’d gotten your goodnight kiss—it lingers in your chest like a supernova, expanding and growing more dense. Hot and hotter.

You’d kiss Cat Grant until the end of time if you were able.

But right now, you’re across town in the busiest part of the art district.

You feel the air vibrate—it’s a strange sensation, because it feels like it’s coming from _inside_ you. Spattering like a little storm inside your chest, miniscule jolts of electricity lining your bones, and plunging into your muscles and through your skin. The insides of your nostrils tingle, and you’ve never _sneezed_ before, but you imagine this is what it must feel like. Uncomfortable, tingling, and abrupt. The energy coughs through the air, and you narrow your eyes, following the molecules that thrash and spin—quicker and _quicker_ —like the area around them was heating rapidly—while somehow staying the same temperature.

 _Whirr—whirr—whirr_. Like the particles are trying to get out of their own way, like a great machine is just beginning to spin into life—around, and around, and _around_. You feel it press in along your skin, shiver along the hair on the back of your arm and to the soft hairs at the back of your neck. Everything prickles—each one of your senses—and you can only firm yourself for whatever is coming your way—you taste metal on the back of your tongue, and something acidic in the air. _Petrichor_ —the smell following a thunderstorm. That was what had originally pulled you from your date—had snagged your nostrils like two brutal fingers, yanking you around and to this side of town.

The crackle is your first clue that whatever is going to happen—is going to happen in the middle of the street on a Saturday night—the cars blink and swerve around each other, an intricate dance of two-thousand pound vehicles that humans don’t seem to realize is literally their lives in a precarious balance. A balance about to be interrupted by— _something_. The night splits and sneers, little blue splinters of lightening spidering across the dark—so thin, and so fast, you know the human eye can’t see them. They are originating form one particular place—right on the double yellow line. The lightening circles, and circles, and circles, and when it folds in on itself—expanding.

It’s here—whatever _it_ is.

Like a memory, or a phantom touch, you’re zipping your jacket up over your dress, tugging the collar high enough to hide your mouth and chin, snagging a pair of wayfarer sunglasses off a display at Mach 1—dropping the five dollar bill from your pocket in its place—and toward the phenomenon you go. Properly disguised, shoulders hunching below the sizzle and snap of energy—there’s something red, and crackling, a bright spot of color in the almost colorless expanse of burning _something_. You feel your skin heat and hiss under the pressure, like it is trying to melt through your skin—to combust your molecules and scatter them mindlessly into the dark—or this strange out of sync void.

Everything is moving slower—inching along, and you see how whatever is coming out of the fissure is about to collide head on with a Pepsi Cola tractor-trailer; the headlights mismatching, flickering on one side, the driver none-the-wiser. You have the idea that no one even realizes this is happening—that the material fabric of the city is splitting open and _something_ is spilling through. It’s _fast_ , ridiculously so, and even with your senses, you’re half a millisecond behind it—trailing in its wake—but you can cut it off, catch it at the pass, as it were. Throwing your body forward, a blur of faded black and gray, you lodge your frame into the side of whoever is coming through.

They’re solid—and _fast_ , did you mention fast? They buckle quickly though, and there’s something of a _oh geeze_ wheezed past your ear as you wrap an arm around their chest and propel yourself—and them—further out of the way, and into the dark on an alley. It’s only been seconds—barely that—and the life happening out on the street doesn’t even pause. _You’re_ disoriented—you don’t _do_ disoriented, but your ears are ringing, and your nose is bleeding, and— _it hurts_. Your bones are rattling inside like they’ve been put under the pressure of Krypton’s gravity once more—heavy, and slow, and weighted _._

Swallowing back the popping sensation in your ears, you look at what you—for lack of a better word— _caught_ when it came through. It looks like it’s wearing the autumn leather jacket Cat had wanted to buy last year before she decided it was _tacky_ , and the tan leather looked better with her complexion anyway. Red leather from head to toe, little _whooshes_ of gold, and when you get closer you can hear _very_ human groaning. Little fires sprouting up on the garbage strewn across the alley floor. It’s hard to hear them over the ringing, but you can make out another groan, and another _oh geeze_.

“That was a pretty big traffic violation you just pulled.” You say, though your voice warbles in the middle, and the pitch fluctuates too much. Your ears are settling down, and your nose has stopped bleeding, leaving a smear of red below your nostrils. The figure rights themselves— _quick_ —and you step forward, instead of back, fists clenching tight, brow tucking behind the sunglasses that hide half your face. It’s a man—tall, slim—and he has a mask covering the majority of his face. Lightning bolts over both ears, matching the one on his chest—the one circles by a bracket of metal, the faint pulse of blue crackling at its edges.

“This—this isn’t where I was aiming for.” He says, his voice airy and incredulous, his eyes light, and bright, and squinting as he shields them from the glint of street lights. Looking past you, and then at you, “You’re—a kid. A strong kid—and fast—and—” He seems to stop himself, and you can see how his brow crinkles even under his rubber looking red cowl.

“Who are you?” You ask, because men in red leather jumpsuits and masks typically have names—or at least backup dancers. And he seems fresh out of those.

He smiles, a nice wide smile, “the Flash.” Like that should mean something to you.

“The who-now?” You know Batman, the caped crusader all the way over in Gotham; and his array of problems. Catwoman, the Joker, the Penguin—then there was that sorcerer, Sargon, who was spending his time in New York; and you _swear_ you felt the buzz of a power ring when you were in Central City last—you couldn’t determine the color, but you’d encountered them once or twice in Krypton.

“The Fl—wait—do you not know who I am?”

“Should I?”

“What about the Green Arr—I’ve done this before—I _just_ did this. I—,” he stops, rubbing the back of his head, frowning, and the expression doesn’t look comfortable on his face. Obviously someone more accustomed to smiling. “Where did Supergirl throw me?” _That_ gets your attention, because that’s something only Cat calls you—something that Cat calls _Kara_ —not whoever you pretend to be at night, with a collar across your face and sunglasses over your eyes.

You don’t realize you’ve stepped toward him until he takes a step back and his back hits the alley wall; he doesn’t look afraid, but as he’s already pointed out—you’re a _kid_. But you don’t like the feeling settling in your chest, it feels like an ache, but like the phantom of it. Like this should mean something more to you, but it _doesn’t_ , and you don’t like that feeling. “How do you know that name?” You ask, voice pitched lower, going for huskier, but all you manage to do is rasp unattractively against the inside of your collar.

“Supergirl? Ugh—you know—National City’s alien superhero? I mean—I didn’t think—it wasn’t a secret.” He doesn’t sound sure, “I—she isn’t really subtle about the—alien…ness.” Both of his hands are raised, and he looks _sorry_ , but you don’t know what exactly he’s apologizing for.

“National City doesn’t have a superhero.” You don’t say— _it has me_.

He’s pulling his mask off, and he looks lost—a little off kilter, and you wonder how far from home he is. You can see it in the lines of his face—the worry there—and as someone two-thousand lightyears from _your_ home, you feel a kinship. His hair is messy, and his light eyes squint against the street lights. He’s unmasked himself, so you unzip your collar, and drag the sunglasses up to the crown of your head.

“Barry Allen, fastest man alive.” He smiles, but the worry doesn’t fade, but he extends a hand.

You clasp it, “Kara—,” he stiffens, and you don’t notice because you’d fumbling with the same dilemma you do every time. “Just Kara, I guess.”

“Kara—Kara Danvers,” he’s brightening, and you’re frowning—shaking your head, “Kara Zor-El?” You haven’t heard that name in three years—outside your own head, at least. It’s like listening to a recording of something you loved once—something you thought dead and gone. But his accent is wrong, and he emphasizes the wrong parts, and it doesn’t whistle through his teeth like it’s supposed to.

But it’s your name, there’s no question to that.

“I—how do you know that name?” Your voice in pinched, and there’s a moisture in your eyes, because you can feel the creak of your planet beneath your feet once more, it rumbles and shifts, and you feel _unbalanced_. He looks worried, and concerned, and when he reaches to touch your shoulder, you realize you actually _have_ become unbalanced—whatever inner-ear problem the fissure caused lingering like a bloodless wound.

“You—you told me, Kara.” There’s a lingering sadness, a phantom film over his expression that say he’s seen things vanish before his eyes before—that he’s seen the impossible, and you want to know what he means.

“I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t tell anyone. You—you’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he assures, and his fingers squeeze—hard enough that you can feel it, which means he’s gripping with enough pressure to harm a human. _He knows_. “Geeze—you’re just a kid.” The realization spiders across his face, and his free hand rubs at his eyes. “This is—this is getting messy. I was supposed to go home; I must have been thinking about something else, and ended up here. Wherever _here_ is.”

He looks at you, “But—but you helped me before, even if you don’t remember—maybe you can help me again?” You see the itch under his skin, the need to be home, to see those you love—you get it if Clark or Cat’s out of your senses for even an _hour_. You don’t trust that they won’t simply vanish when you aren’t looking. Something tells you Barry’s telling the truth, that he’s just a soul lost to—time and space.

“I—sure, Barry.” You say, chewing on your bottom lip—maybe you won’t be able to catch Cat before she goes to sleep tonight. “Might need a better explanation though.”

“Absolutely,” you feel like you’re in for a long night.


	34. snap shot 34. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**.  _You like control—you wrap it around yourself like a shawl in winter, you let it seep into every aspect of your life. But Kara—she crashed back into your life like a silent comet, and control went out the window. Dissolved, and you couldn’t miss it too much, because you had her back. And eventually, eventually, she had you too; it only took her a while to realize it._ // Prompt from whatiwork4.

* * *

Kara had sat at the desk outside your office for the better part of the afternoon—bouncing her rubber band ball, and drawing on computer paper. She’d glance up every sixth minute to make sure you hadn’t gone anywhere. Even considering the dark sunglasses, you didn’t need to see her blue eyes, to know how she’d be squinting—sorting through layers of molecules and depths. She’d explained it to you one night, when Carter had still been nothing more than a babe—how everything mixes and meshes together, and it was so hard to stay in the _here and now_. How she struggled for _years_ to not lose herself in the black spaces between stars. That the quiet called to her in tongues you couldn’t even begin to understand—a lost starling who had made earth her home, who could still hear the call from somewhere on the other side of the galaxy.

She slips past the open doorway and into the fishbowl of your office without you noticing—perching carefully on the edge of the uncomfortable chair directly in front of your desk. You’d spun abruptly, ready to slam your phone down, and had been startled to see—blue eyes. The sunglasses carefully placed on your desk for the first time in weeks. She’s squinting, and her lips press together tightly enough that they begin to go white; but it was the way she blinks that tells you where she is—slow, measured actions you know she’s reminding herself to do, determined to act the part of human—or painfully more, like how she _used_ to be. She leans over your work space, and begins plucking at papers—some you’d discarded, some you were still working with—and begins stacking them in neat piles at the far side of your desk. Fingers shivering slightly with each motion—almost impossible to notice, but you’re always looking now.

“I was editing those,” you say quietly, low and from your chest, and Kara blinks again, and smiles. A wide silly smile that makes your heart ache and expand, and she simply continues to put away your work—close your laptop, cap your pens, and put your glasses in their case. “I suppose I’m done for the day?” Kara doesn’t immediately look at you, she glances down and away—and you see how her eyes go foggy, before they sharpen, and she turns her attention on you. Smile a little smaller, eyes a little dimmer, but her chin lowers to touch her chest for a moment, before lifting. A nod.

Kara doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, just looks at you—and through you for a moment, but you wait for her to return. You’ve learned to wait from Carter—you’ve seen how he is with Kara, and it both mends and breaks your heart. He’s patient, and considerate, and so many things you aren’t—but you’re learning. Sometimes—less now, than in the beginning—Kara will lose focus, and her mind will drift away. After you see the life fill blue eyes again, you stand, and Kara follows—like her actions are intimately tethered to yours. And you suppose in many ways they are.

She’s dressed in a shirt that looks suspiciously like one of Carter’s button downs, and a vest you _know_ is Clark’s—it hangs off her shoulders almost comically, and her hands twist in the loose ends. You’ve seen how her lips move sometimes—like she’s saying things silently to herself—when fingertips are tracing over the thousand-count bedsheets on your bed. Like she’s counting. Keeping a running tally in her mind—Carter does that sometimes, when he’s nervous, or overwhelmed. He likes _finite_ things—a box of cookies can have only so many cookies, a tiled wall can have only so many tiles. He breaths, and counts, and by the end, he is sure of one more thing than he had been before.

How many things does Kara need to be sure of before she speaks?

It’s frightening to know you’ll wait forever.

Until the stars go dark.

It’s a rare moment that the office is still full when you leave—still twenty bodies easily spread across the floor, all shoving through papers and typing madly at their computers. You’ve just donned your sunglasses when inordinately hot fingers curl around your own loosely, and pull you forward and out of your office. Her grip tightens when eyes turn to watch—most unsure, some shocked, but you have spent years ignoring looks and opinions you don’t care about. Kara doesn’t like the attention, you know that—she doesn’t like _feeling_ all those eyes, so you grip her hand a little and when she looks at you, you shift your eyes to the shaking little computer gnome she’d befriended.

You know his name is Winslow Schott junior, he went to college on a scholarship—merit based—and had in inordinate fascination with extraterrestrials. Superman, in particular. He is good at his job, knew when to keep his head down, and never tried to make eye contact—all personality traits that endear someone to you, not that he knew that. What truly endeared him to you, was how Kara took to him—it should stand to reason that awkward would attract awkward. The little gnome had made Kara smile, had sat quietly with her at lunch, and helped her carry boxes—even if she didn’t need the help.

Sometimes it’s just the sentiment that matters.

You _know_ it was because the programmer had developed something of a crush on the blonde, and while you can’t blame him—you didn’t appreciate it. As much as you had wanted to sneer and snarl, you’d held your tongue, and let Kara figure it out herself. You couldn’t very well have every harmless nerd who fell in love with her sentenced to some remote data center in middle-America. The awkward hovering had lasted only a week or two, before it resolved—sometime around the time the hobbit was replacing the screen in your display wall.

Now, the sight of her friend makes your alien loosen the drawn press of her shoulders, release the painful grip she had on your fingers, and smile. He jumps up from his desk, approaching in a way he wouldn’t have even two weeks ago, falling in beside Kara and yammering on about— _something_ , you don’t pay attention, making a show of scrolling through your mobile. And slowly the attention of everyone else in the office fades—when you’ve reached your private elevator, and he excuses himself with a cheerful, “Have fun tonight, Kar!” And you know he’s gotten her name from when you’ve said it, but the fact that he knows _anything_ about what she’s doing tonight doesn’t sit well with you.

“Are you doing something fun tonight, darling?” You ask slowly, and she turns that ridiculously bright smile in your direction—and that prideful little devil in your chest relishes how it brightens further yet when she’s looking at you—nodding an affirmative, and that’s it. You don’t pout—it’s a known fact—but you’re close, and the entire elevator ride is punctuated by your chosen silence. Kara hums, and nudges you, and you pointedly ignore her—to which she responds by plopping her bony chin on your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

It isn’t fair—you don’t stand a _chance_.

Your town car is already waiting at the curb, and you open the door for her, waiting as she slides in and across the leather seat, settling against the far door with her heels balancing on the edge of the seat. Usually you’d tell her to sit like a civilized human being, but tonight you’re feeling oddly charitable—maybe it’s the happy squint to the corner of her eyes. Sitting beside her, you toy with the idea of continuing your charade, but you miss the feel of her heat, so you saddle up close, and sling your arm across the back of the seat, twirling a curl of her hair around your finger. “I’m a very intelligent woman, love,” you begin somberly, tugging lightly at the strand around your digit, “And with this intelligence—I’ve deduced with utter certainty—that you are up to something.”

She leans into you, her head resting on your shoulder, her nose pressed into the crook of your neck—something low in your stomach coils when she inhales deeply. A heat bleeding into the rest of you that ignites your nerve endings and boils your blood; but you keep it at a simmer, knowing the action is born of a need for succor, not anything overtly sexual. Your scent comforts her—the same with Clark and Carter’s, which is why she’s taken to wearing their clothing. It grounds her, and keeps her here. Shifting just enough that you can press a kiss to her temple, you’re so lost in your own comfort that you don’t realize for fifteen minutes that your car is driving in the wrong direction—you straighten slightly, pulling away, and just as you’re about to lower the divider and read the driver the riot act, a solid scalding hand stops you—fingers curled over your knee.

Looking at Kara, she’s smiling—suddenly bared blue eyes dancing with a brightness you haven’t seen in a while. It lights up her whole face, and you melt—whatever defenses you _thought_ you still had are annihilated, and you simply can’t find it in yourself to miss them. She’s reaching into a bag at her feet that you hadn’t noticed before—you see a flash of blue—before something is forced onto your head. You frown and pull away, reaching up to grab the bill of the hat now ruining your perfectly curled hair—and it’s…

A Vancouver Canucks’ hat.

Primary color blue, with a white and green rounded edge box, and an intersecting hockey stick. You’re _very_ familiar with the logo, seeing as it had adorned every wall of your father’s den growing up. He was a _rabid_ Canucks fan, had flown clear across the country more than once to watch them play—and he’d passed that rabid fandom onto you, much to your chagrin most of the time. They weren’t a particularly good team, and you’d learned to accept that readily—still hopelessly devoted to their struggle—something only a handful of people knew about you.

You mother had stripped every ounce of the team from the house when she’d moved you from Metropolis to National City at the age of fourteen. You had pretended like it didn’t matter that she was auctioning off your father’s memorabilia without care what it meant to you—sold the season ticket box for admission to some country club or another. You’d taken the whole event in stony silence, and in all honesty—it was the first of many nails in the coffin that was your relationship to Katherine Grant.

When you’d moved out, the first thing you had done was paint the spare bedroom Canuck blue—it was God awful, and clashed with everything, but it was a satisfying kind of ugly. Kara had painted the logo on the wall, careful and understanding, never questioning why the rest of the apartment looked like a Good Home’s photoshoot, and this one small bedroom was a hodge-podge of bright color and garish sports paraphernalia. Sinking with her into the comfortable couch, you’d told her about a man who loved a team more than most things—certainly your mother, probably his job, but never you—and how pieces of him had been shipped away in neat little packages.

His picture had hung on the wall, just beside your signed jersey.

Now that you’re older—now that the public dogs your every step, looking for fault—you don’t allow yourself to partake in the mindless enjoyment of sports—publically. Paul Allen—who you call _Paulie_ , because he hates it—owns two of your father’s favorite teams—the Portland Trailblazers, and the Seattle Seahawks. He cordially invites you to games throughout the season, and you let him explain the rules to you each time—pretending you don’t know why you’re should _always_ go at 4 th and 1. You contained the expletives when Russel Wilson _threw_ instead of handing it off to Beast Mode at the Super Bowl—bitter sweet, because Carter was beside you in his Patriots’ jersey shouting with joy, louder than he’s ever done in public.

He’d gloated the whole plane ride home, cradling his Tom Brady signed football.

Still, you’re confused, and when you look at her, she’s smiling—a proud smile—and turns on the screen of her mobile, displaying e-tickets. You remain confused for only a moment, until you realize they’re tickets for tonight’s finals game—rink side, but not in the ice box, but right beside the penalty box. The stadium for the National City Imperials is fairly new—only two years old—and you haven’t been to a hockey game in—decades. At least. The confusion must show on your face, because she rolls her eyes, and reaches over to grab your mobile—putting in the passcode quickly, and dragging her thumb to show the notifications you _may_ have been cruising while you were supposed to be listening to the idiots in financial debating on where they should be buying reams of computer paper from.

_ETA for Every Team to Contend for the Stanley Cup._

_Pros, Cons, Each Top Prospect Ahead of NHL Draft._

_Canucks Know They Must Be Better, Confident of Comeback._

_Beauty of Gudbranson’s Defense in the Details._

You flush, _slightly_ , and raise your eyebrows—but that only last a moment because—well, because this is new. This is _wonderful_. Kara has been trying to reclaim aspects of her life—the things she could remember doing. Getting coffee, hanging around the office, picking Carter up from school—the bigger pictures were there, but the details got lost. Your coffee order was never right—though you always drank it, and she’d gone to the wrong school to pick Carter up—though he’d waited patiently on the front steps for her. She tried to seamlessly fold back into the lives of the people most important to her, and she stumbled more often than not.

But this—this was a wonderful development. She remembered your favorite team, she correctly procured the tickets, and she seamlessly corralled you into attending. It is the kind of focus that she’d been lacking in the recent weeks—oddly intent on something, until her mind drifted, and it was forgotten utterly. You don’t realize you’re grinning until it reflects on her own face, joy crinkling the edges of her eyes, and her face fits perfectly in your hands when you lean in to kiss her. You can’t help yourself. Soft as a feather, chaste by all means—making sure the contact wasn’t startling, or overwhelming—she shifts uncomfortably for a moment, and then _melts_ into you, her fingers lacing over yours on her face, before they slid up your forearms, and settle near your elbows.

Hands strong enough to crush diamonds, and lips softer than silk—she’s a juxtaposition of herself, and you love it.

You love _her_.

She makes a low sound into your mouth, a rumble from her chest, and you can only press closer, teasing her lower lip with both of yours until she opens her mouth. Kara’s shifted until she’s nearly on top, you can feel her body heat through the thin layer of your shirt, and the slight bulk of your blazer—hands tentative and light as they skirt up your arms and splay wide across your collarbones, her inordinately smooth fingertips the only part of her touching bare skin. She almost crushes the hat that she’d put on your head earlier when she slides just that much closer, and settles herself in your lap.

It’s intoxicating, the way her knees bracket your hips, her hands sliding up your neck to dig into your hair and tighten—you moan, you can’t help it. Kara pulls away just enough that you can trace the line of her songbird collarbones, and long to dip your tongue into the hollows just above. The ache in your teeth, and the thrill in your blood is a rush; you’re an addict. You’ve been clean for a decade—through circumstance, not desire to be—and now that temptation has fallen quite literally into your lap, you can’t find an ounce of yourself that doesn’t want to delve deep and wholly.

A strong finger trails up your throat, and along the underside of your chin, tilting your head back until you’re snared by blistering blue eyes. There’s nothing disoriented, or confused, or unsure about Kara right now—blonde hair falls in sinful curls around her angelic face, and the smile across swollen lips is consuming. If she was a fire, you would gladly burn. Some unrepentant little sound tumbles from the back of your throat—something horribly pathetic, and shamelessly needy. You’re leaning forward, hands curled into the soft fabric of her pants, searching for purchase, but her hand presses against your chest—palm flat to your sternum between your breasts. You tell yourself the sound that comes out of you this time _isn’t_ a whine.

Kara’s fingers begin the careful task of slipping the buttons of your blouse free, a single finger seeming to linger just slightly behind the parting fabric—causing you to shiver and inhale deeply through your nostrils. She arches a brow, and finally finishes, smoothing palms up your stomach, avoiding your tightened nipples, and over your shoulders—pushing the fabric free until it is only snagged around your wrists. You struggle for a moment, but cease all effort when scalding lips press against the curve of your breast, open mouthed and wet, and it’s ungainly, but you manage to lift a constricted hand to curl into her hair at the back of her head, arching into her mouth.

Kara takes her time—leaving a cool wet trail in her wake as she trails her tongue across the lace edge of your bra, nipping delicately at your collarbones, and dipping her tongue into the hollow just above them. _Sucking_ on your pulse point, hard enough that it borders on pain— _delicious_ pain. You’re keening, and can’t quiet remember _why_ you can’t get your hands to move properly—tangled as you are in discarded clothing. Head lulling back against the car seat, lips caught between your teeth while you drown in the feeling of her—the familiar heat, the soft insistence of knowing hands. It’s like she’s suddenly remembered how easily she could map your body—where exactly to press to make you compliant, and eager.

At some point you’d closed your eyes, so all you had was the feel of Kara—smooth hands and knowing lips, speaking a language that had no need for words. She told you how much she loved you in how she nuzzled her nose behind your ear. She explained how hard it was to be away with how her cheek pressed against your own. She alleviated your fears, and worries, with how her hands smoothed down the bare skin of your sides and settled at the low slung set of your pants. The fire still burned in your stomach, hot and consuming, but the energy had drifted and changed—calming, where it had been invigorating. Soothing, where it had burned.

Opening your eyes, you can see the cement pillars, and wan light, of a parking garage; the car still purrs, but it isn’t moving. But all you have a mind for in the woman curled against your chest. Ear pressed to your sternum, listening to the quick thump of your heart. Kara’s hand rubs light shapes against your stomach and side, her nose against the lace of your bra—but it’s…it’s soft, and calm. Like the storm that has become your life might just pass by, might dissipate and leave you with sunshine and warmth. It’s a silly thought, young and unrealistic, but in this moment you’re willing believe it because you’re _happy_. She’s practically purring in your lap, and you’re simply running hands up and down her back, scratching at the nape of her neck mindlessly.

The car rocks vibrates with the sound of a few thousand people walking into the stadium—easy able to sit seventeen-thousand people—chanting, and hollering. You can just make out grown men wrapped in a green skin-suit, wearing a familiar blue jersey, through the dark tinted glass of the town car. Kara’s stirring, sitting up—still straddling your lap—and she’s looking over your head out the back window, hands on either of your shoulders. You watch her eyes—they always give her away. You search for any uncertainty, nervousness, the foggy distance that says she’s pulling away from you—but she’s alright. Her eyes flicker quickly, like she’s trying to keep track of who passes the car, but her body stays loose and relaxed.

You’re content for now; having her warm hips in your hands, feeling the weight of her in your lap, and against your shoulders.

But eventually, she slides off you, and sits properly in the car, facing forward and leaning down to pull something from the bag at her feet—vest discarded, button down following quickly, and you lick your lips. Gold skin, taut and smooth on display. Before you can forget the game even more, she’s haphazardly tugging something over her head, and then turning to you with a smile. It’s your Kesler jersey from home—well worn, and dwarfing her, because it was ridiculously large on you to begin with. A bright blue beanie completes the look, and she’s ready for a hockey game.

“Go Canucks go?” Your voice is raspy, and you realize—sans when you first sat down—you haven’t said anything for the majority of the trip. Kara smiles again, kneeling on the seat to hook a blue scarf behind your neck, to pull you into a long, deep kiss. You get a little lost in it, hand curled behind her head, lost in gold curls—before she leans away and drops a jersey, sunglasses, hat, and the scarf on your lap. Holding up face paint with a perked brow—which you promptly dismiss with a miniscule shake of your head. This isn’t college—you will not be painting your face anymore.

Your driver nods in your direction, while you’re straightening the jersey—it had rucked up a little in the back from being put on in a cramped place. Brimmed hat and scarf properly set, sunglasses perched on the tip of your nose. Kara walks one step to your side, and behind—her fingers brushing yours with every sway of your arm, and at one point she snags your hand and hooks two fingers around two of yours.

“Thank you,” you squeeze her fingers, and look at her, the sunglasses tipped just enough that you can look over them—she blinks, and tips her head slightly, stepping a little closer. “Thank you for noticing.” For fighting whatever pull kept pulling her into the stars, for ignoring the comfort of retreating, for—for being here. In the chaos of a finals match, dressing in ridiculous blue; just because it was something she knew you’d enjoy. Something you wouldn’t have allowed yourself otherwise. You’re—you’re Cat Grant, media magnate, proclaimed media royalty—you’re not supposed to like cursing at players who hog the puck and leave the net because of sheer arrogance.

You’re not supposed to—but you do.

Kara rubs her thumb across your knuckles and tugs you behind her toward the stadium entrance—you can already hear the jeers and chants, the stomping of feet in an odd perfectly synched rhythm. She inhales slowly through her mouth, and out though her nose and nods once—smiling, robin egg blue eyes bright, glittering like nebulas and spring afternoons. So wholesome, and cosmic, at the same time.

And she’s dragging you toward her, catching your lips in a decidingly chaste kiss compared to the ones you’d had in the backseat. Your hands are clasped to the front of her jersey, and she slowly takes your hands in hers, folding her fingers into the inadvertent fists you’d made. Folding her fingers through yours, she’s stepping back again, pulling you along, smiling when she sees the tension leave your body again.

Her lips are moving—slightly, barely at all, and you wonder what she’s counting. Cars or fans, bricks or cracks. She presses a kiss to your thumb, and you can feel the vibration of her voice—low, raspy with disuse—like a jolt through your system.

“Untuck your thumbs,” she murmurs.


	35. snap shot 35. ( 3, 19, 31, 33 )

**SNAP SHOT (ALEX)**. _You didn't sign up for this, and no one is expecting it of you, and maybe that's why you do it in the beginning. Because there was no one else; an incompetent man-boy ex, and a college student holding a grudge aren't really decent choices. So you answer your phone that first time, and the time after that; and somewhere along the like it stops being some self-proclaimed obligation, and turns into just caring about someone._

* * *

You don’t know how to help broken people, not well enough, at least. When your father died, you’d been numb at the funeral—cold and empty—and you’d watched how you mother shattered. She’d sobbed into her brother’s shoulder, and clutched at her own mother’s waist, allowing them to keep her together. You’d wanted to step into the circle of her arms, to hold her and have her hold you in return—but you didn’t—it didn’t _hurt_. Not like that. It was like someone have carved out a piece of you, some integral corner of self—and expected you to be fine. To keep on going like nothing had changed.

Pulled the air from your lungs.

Or the blood from your veins.

Your mother got better with time—and you tried your hardest to not remind her of your father. You took the stars off the ceiling, and hid your telescope away. You focused on track, and orchestra, and told her you weren’t interested in science anymore—it had been a lie, you both knew it. You’d tried your hardest to be your best self, so that she never worried, never looked at you and wondered if she wasn’t enough on her own—the parent that had never understood you the best. You were your father’s daughter, and she’d been delighted about that while he was alive—her two scientists, her lovely family. And sudden you became half a whole that she couldn’t _unsee_ , and you felt lacking.

It took you years to remember that you weren’t.

Walking into the bar for the third time this week, the bartender gives you a small smile that you return. You’d been sleeping hard when he’d called, and it hadn’t occurred to you for even a moment to _not_ come. The only clothes you’d had within grasp had been your work clothes from the day—a little dusty, and probably not the best smelling—so you don’t really look like the type to be spending the night at _Ecstasy_ , the hottest gay bar in town. It was the kind of high-energy place you couldn’t imagine yourself after work. You just wanted peace, quiet, and something mindless to watch on television.

You see her on the dancefloor—dancing with a smartly dressed college boy who is being far too considerate with his hands. They’re both smiling, but only he’s having a good time—and you feel the weight again. The one that comes with being the person left standing. The world has no idea that the person masquerading as Cat Grant is only a shell of the real woman—that she’s tottering between sleepless nights and alcoholic binges on the sharpest of blade tips. She dolls up her edges with hundred-dollar foundation, and slides birdwing shoulders into silk blazers and sheath dresses.

“Would you mind?” You ask when tapping the fantastically dressed gay boy, he smiles at you slyly and unhooks Cat’s hand from the back of his neck, before stepping away. She must feel his movement, because she’s turning into you, and looping arms around your shoulders, cinching them behind your neck. She’s around your height, but she’s _small_ , and it’s a strange distinction to make—because there’s just something delicate about Cat right now. It’s how her eyes are glassy, and her smile brittle, and the lines of her face corner darkly at the edges in ways only you can see, because you aren’t fooled by the perfect wing to her eyeliner.

“ _Alex_ ,” she drawls, voice hot and sharp against your chin, and you bare a smile, all teeth—mostly discomfort. She’s pressed into you, all soft slinking curves of temptation—that tempt _others_ , not you, because she’s _Kara’s_. And you’re not gay—more likely than not. She doesn’t seem to care that her dance partner had abandoned her and left you as his less coordinated stand-in; because Cat hasn’t lost the rhythm and is dragging you into her sway.

She’s deceptively strong.

A pointed chin hits your shoulder, and you try to shift your hold on her, to make it less like you’re grabbing a bag of potatoes, and more like she’s a person. “Cat,” you say loudly, close to her ear because the music has kicked up, “I’m here to take you home.” You can feel her _hmm_ against your neck, but she’s not really minding what you’re saying; still swaying, and gyrating to the song you couldn’t even name, even if your life depended on it. She doesn’t say any actual words, but that isn’t unusual.

When Carter left to spend a week with his father at Cat’s behest, you knew it was going to be a rough few days. Ever since Kara’s _disappearance_ , you’d kept a closer eye on her family—the little boy with bright blue eyes, the college student with a perfected frown, and the woman who wanted the world to know she was alright. A million dollar smile, and an anecdote for every occasion. Cat Grant went on air every afternoon as scheduled, and wooed the nation with her charm, and relatability. You’d watched a few times, but you couldn’t _not_ see the space between her words were the pain lingered—where the hurt showed—no one else saw it, but it didn’t mean it wasn't there.

The first time that the bartender had called, he’d only said he could see the hurt too—that he was a fan of the show and he didn’t want her to try fixing herself this way. You’d been having a nice dream for once—you couldn’t remember what exactly it was about—and had just stared at your ceiling in the dark, wondering why this was _your_ problem. Sure, you and Cat were something like friends—Kara brought her around for game night every now and again, and when you saw her at the store, you waved—but you weren’t the _pick her up drunk from a bar_ kind of friend.

Except, apparently you are, because you’d gotten dressed and drove down. Sliding her almost unresponsive arm over your shoulder and holding her around the waist. She’d mumbled the whole drive to her apartment, most of it incoherent, as she drifted in and out. It wasn’t until you slipped her shoes off, and coaxed her under the covers of her bed that she’d woken long enough to snag your wrist. Green eyes usually sharp as a knife were dull and foggy, “Don’t leave,” she’d asked, but everything in her face said she expected to be ignored—worse, she’d _understand_ being left.

At first you assumed she thought you were someone else, that she was seeing Kara, or Clark, or even Kassidy—but there was a settled sadness about her that had made you kick off your jogging shoes, and walk around to the other side of the ridiculously large bed. Lying down on top of the blankets, you sank into the most comfortable mattress you’ve ever felt. She never rolled over to face you, never shifted closer, but the tremble that had lived in her shoulders since the ride home stopped. “Thanks Alex,” she’d said quietly, voice a whisper, words muffled by the pillow.

“Any time,” you’d replied, and it was strange to know you meant it.

That incident had been two months ago, and ever since then you’d get the wayward call every other weekend, or sometimes in the middle of the week, to pick up your new blonde self-made obligation. Cat was always in various stages of intoxicated, and the bartender always called before things got embarrassing; had even asked once, in confidence, what the situation was. “She lost someone,” you’d replied before you thought better of it, and when you’d turned to threaten the bartender within an inch of his life—he’d only smiled sadly and mimed locking his mouth.

Tonight, she’s feisty. Blonde curls sticking to the back of her neck, hips promising things that none of these men were probably interested in cashing in on. She’s turned so that her back is pressed against your chest, one of her hands hooked behind your neck, and you’ve cemented your boots to the ground, so that she can’t coax you into movement. She huffs, her head falling back on your shoulder, before blinking mosaic green eyes up at you.

“We’re at a night club,” she insists with far too much husk for comfort, dropping a little too low, before dragging her body up yours, “You’re supposed to be dancing.”

“No,” you say a little more firmly than you intend, “I’m supposed to be _sleeping_.”

You feel the stiffness that jolts through her, before she relaxes again, moving away from you like she intends to go find her college boy, because _he_ was willing to dance. But your fingers are wrapped around her wrist, and your other hand is steady on her shoulder—she weavers on her heels, and you keep her firmly on her feet. There’s a hurt in the edges of her face, little pinches of pain, and she’s blinking too rapidly. You notice all these things in the blink of an eye, and you’re _so_ glad you’re a trained federal agent, because you need to be to understand Cat. All those delicate hurt feelings are folding away for the woman’s personal brand of anger.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” she sneers, eyes still blinking quickly, spitting angry to hide her embarrassment, “So go right on back to sleep, Agent Danvers. I’m fine.” You’ve always been a little envious of how put together Cat is, even when she’s crumbling apart and drunk. Her words are hazy all around, but somehow still crisp. She goes to pull her wrist away, and you tighten your hold—and when you realize it might border on painful, you loosen, and then release her completely.

But now that she’s free, she doesn’t walk away.

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you damn well know it,” you say, frowning at her, and dropping both arms to your sides. The two of you must look incredibly awkward—standing absolutely still in the middle of the thrumming dancefloor.

“And how _did_ you mean it?”

Rubbing a hand over your face, you step closer so that you don’t have to scream over the music, and she holds her ground, like you knew she would.

“If I didn’t want to be here, I would’ve ignored the call,” you say, softer now, keeping eye contact, “This’s what friends do, Cat; they show up at—,” you pause to look the watch on the inside of your wrist, “—two-fifteen in the morning to pick you up, and take you home.” There’s something impossibly vulnerable about Cat; she’s hard, and smart, and no-nonsense, but she’s so tender inside. Where she guards a heart you know is aching something horrible.

She still hasn’t said anything, so you continue, “So will you let me take you home?”

It’s a gamble, because she is known her for stubbornness, but you’ll be leaving here with her, even if you have to throw her over your shoulder. You’d just prefer to do it without all the drama.

Cat swallows, and she’s fallen back into a slight sway, like the music simply refuses to leave her entirely, but she breathes in deep, and gives you a slight nod. Almost imperceptible. Her eyes flinty and light in the dark of the club, looking at you, and through you, at the same time. When you wrap an arm around her shoulders, she doesn’t lean into you, which makes walking difficult, but you don’t say anything—you look straight ahead, and hold the door open with one final nod to the bartender.

The ride to Cat’s building in quiet, the radio dial sitting somewhere in the mid-nineties playing country music a little louder than necessary because the west coast is firmly entrenched in their denial how good it is. Hello, mid-west _. I’m going to aim my headlights into your bedroom window, throw empty beer cans at both your shadows. I didn’t come here to start a fight, but I’m up for anything now._ You pretend not to notice that Cat’s humming along, even if she might not know the words, she doesn’t hate your country music as much as she says. But you won’t call her on it tonight, you’ll do it in a few days when she invites you over for dinner—a silent apology that she knows isn’t necessary, when she’s pointedly drinking water with dinner, and not wine.

You always accept, because you miss Carter.

Her living room is cold, and the balcony door is open—you know she’s waiting for some monumental moment when a spectre— _the Spectre_ —will flit back into her life. So that she doesn’t have to feel this _hurt_ inside. At this point she’ll usually shuffle down the hall in silence, and when the bedroom light clicks on you’ll punch in the security code and go home—but tonight she doesn’t make it further than the foyer. Heeled shoes kicked off, purse left on the table in the hall, hair curling and disheveled from a night of dancing and drinking—you can see how her shoulders are lifting as she breathes deep.

“I don’t know who I am without her,” she says finally, looking down the hall to the guestroom that’s door is firmly shut—the room you know is filled with Kara’s things. “It’s crazy—I’m Cat Grant, the _Times_ just named me one of the ten most influential women in the country, and—and I don’t know who I am.” It’s said with all the calm of the eye of a hurricane, placid and smooth, and merely a warning for what’s to come. You’re form the mid-west—you don’t do hurricanes, but you damned well know how to handle a twister or two.

“You already said it—you’re Cat Grant,” because binge drinking and dancing until three in the morning can only help escape the pain for so long before there’s more broken parts than there are whole ones. No, you couldn’t tell her who _Cat Grant_ was, not perfectly—but you have an idea. It is the little things you notice just because you’d wanted to know why this blonde had snared Kara so completely. You’d encouraged the kryptonian to date after the messy split—had told her she deserved better, that she had to move on, and that Cat wasn’t worth it.

Kara had looked you in the eye, and smiled like you simply couldn’t understand.

Maybe she was right.

“I feel like half a person,” you can hardly hear the words, she’s whispering softly and staring down the hall at the closed door. You wonder if the Kara in her mind is the bloody vigilante at the end of the world, or someone softer, and happier. A teenager bright with love. “Like pieces of me were torn away when she left, and I have no hope of getting them back.”

She pauses for only a moment, “And I’m not even sure I’d want them back.”

Because the numb makes it possible to be alright, even if it’s just masking tape over the mortal wounds in her heart. Band aids for bullet holes.

“Do you regret loving her?”

 _Now_ , she turns, and she’s squinting at you a little harshly—but you know it’s also because you must be rather blurry. Her lips are pinched together, and hands tucked across her stomach. Defensive in every mannerism. She’s taken a step away, toward the hallway, shadows falling along the slope of her cheeks, darkening the light color of her eyes.

“I wish I could,” she says eventually, “This would be so much easier if I could regret her.”

You exhale loudly through your nose, and tuck your thumbs into your belt loops, you feel impossibly out of your depth, because she just looks _sad_ , and you can’t handle that. If she’d been _angry_ , you would’ve been fine. But the way her eyes glisten, but the tears never fall? It is a solid punch to the chest.

“Easier, not better.” You surmise, and she breathes deep, and nods.

“Not better,” she agrees.

Cat sighs, looking to the side, out the open balcony door, like the answer might be somewhere in the sky. “I tell myself every morning that she isn’t coming back; that this isn’t a movie—and hope isn’t some prerequisite for getting through the day.” Her words are half-mumbled, and sliding together at the edges, the listless blink of her eyes lets you know she’s close to falling asleep—even standing rigidly as she is.

“There’s places in my life that I can’t fill, because I’m saving them for a ghost, how fucked up is that?” She spits the word, and clenches her jaw, turning back to look at you and the tears are falling now—silent, her face unmoving. Like she doesn’t know she’s falling apart. Cat’s beseeching you with shards of green obfuscated by sorrow, holding herself together stalwartly, hands clasping opposite elbows, and teeth meshed together tightly.

“You know when it’s hardest?” She’s smiling, but not like anything is happy, or funny, “When I go shopping, and I get yogurt only she likes, or cereal only she eats—and it isn’t until I’m putting it away that I remember that I don’t need to buy it anymore.” You know what she means—your mother bought soy milk for three months after your father died; she would sit it on the shelf where it’s always been, and pretend she doesn’t cry a little when it goes sour without ever being opened.

“It’s alright to not be okay,” you say, knowing you’re being next to no help, but she does offer you something of a smile. It’s more bared teeth, but it’s _genuine_ , and that’s more precious than the thousand watt grin she gives on-air. “No one expects you to be.”

“No, they do,” she laughs, pressing her knuckles against her temples and swaying backwards until she’s leaning against the wall, “Because I was a stubborn ass, who just—didn’t want to admit I was wrong. No one knows that the girl I’ve loved since I was fifteen years old is—is gone.” The trip over _is gone_ seems to upset her, and she frowns—a kaleidoscope of emotion. “Gone— _gone_. I keep saying that like it’ll change something—she’s not gone, she’s _dead_.”

You want to do something stupid like hug her, or hold her, but she’s Cat Grant, and she pulls herself together. Brushing hands down the front of her rumpled clothes, and straightening shoulders that are still a little slumped. “She’s dead,” she says it like a nail being hammered into a coffin, the finality lingering on each word. “And I’m not. That’s just how it is; and I have to live with it.” You wonder if she’ll remember all this in the morning, when she’s cloudy and tired.

She’s turning to walk down the hall, toes dragging on the carpet because she can’t quite lift her feet completely, swaying a little with each step. You’re not even sure she’s aware that you’re still here, but she stop, cast completely in shadow, “Thank you,” you can hardly hear the words, but the quiet holds onto them like they’re gospel, “Just—thank you.” And then her bedroom door is shutting with a nearly silent _click_.

You’re left standing in the cool dark, and when you’re turning to leave, you see the couch—a blanket already there from when Cat inevitably fell asleep while reading. Kicking off your boots and throwing yourself down onto the ridiculously comfortable couch, laying down while tugging the blanket over your shoulder.

“You owe me, Kar,” you murmur to the darkness, already falling asleep—you told yourself in the beginning that you were doing this for Kara, to keep her family safe, but somewhere along the line you genuinely started to care, and now you don’t know how to stop. So, you’ll be here in the morning when Cat pretends tonight didn’t happen, when she invites you to dinner, and cries while throwing out strawberry banana yogurt.


	36. snap shot 36. ( 12, 28, 31, 43 )

**SNAP SHOT (ASTRA).** _It is so much easier to love someone else more than yourself; but despite how it seems, there's something innately selfish about it. You cherish them, and expect them to never change, to be who you wish them to be; even if you'll love them for not being that person. Kara is the center of your universe,, the one bright spot in the dark of this liquid black of hell you've found yourself in. And you've ruined her. You've spun madness around, and around, until the impossible had had too much merit. And now you seek redemption; a hollow journey, you know. You love her, even if she may not love you in return, any longer._

* * *

She’s quiet, and still, and the pale of her cheeks has nothing to do with her actual complexion, and everything to do with the fate fostered upon her by madness and circumstance. You’d convinced Non to leave her with you—and by convinced, you’d simply asked him if he wished to make you choose. You pretend to not know what the outcome would be, and he pretends as well—because the dark fosters bonds that have nothing to do with marriage, or promises of grandeur. The black foundation beneath your feet is sifting and unsure, and you balance as softly at you can on the edge of sanity—a blade’s edge width between you and oblivion.

“Have your girl, Astra,” he says, a sneer on his lips, but you can fish through the cold blue of his eyes to find the tenderness that had been there before the dark. When he’d happily hoist your niece up onto his shoulders and listen to her inane child’s chatter. You see that he recognizes her, even despite the slopes and curves of her adult face—the line of her brow is still the same, as is the blue of her eyes—brighter than any O-Type star. “But what’s done is done, and we’ve committed ourselves to this path.” He keeps his gaze on you, and you’re imperious—because he is your husband, yes, but he is also your soldier.

“Don’t question my commitment, lieutenant.” You warn, from somewhere deep in your chest where that flint sharp anger lives. “I haven’t forgotten myself.” No—you’d promised yourself an escape from this liquid madness, from this living nightmare, and you are going to stay true to that. But—Kara—you don’t wish her to be your casualty. You can’t imagine a future paved in the red of her blood. You see Non press a hand against his stomach, differing quietly—as he always does—and bows his head.

“Of course not, general.” And he leaves—the door hissing closed behind him quietly.

Walking up to her side, you listen to how the door clicks—locking—your hand covering hers, but she’s cool to the touch below your smooth fingertips. You don’t look at the other person in the room—the clattering martian with chittering teeth, and long dangerous fingers. The telepath had taken a lot of wrangling, but he’d eventually seen reason—with much violent suggestion attached.

“Are you certain this will work?” You ask the shadows, because you won’t allow this horror to continue—your fingers trace over the mangled remains of Kara’s left arm. Where the rods that had been drilled deep enough to hit bone had been carelessly removed. Needles circulating chemicals and blood torn free, and the resistance had cheered with revelry while hoisting the bloody device over their heads—pieces of Kara still stuck to the molten metal, blood, and skin, and muscle tethered intimately to the machinery. Your niece had been none the wiser, lost to the dreams of the Black Mercy—not a single flinch while the facsimile of surgery had carved the reactor from her.

You’ve wrapped her arm, binding the open wounds with medical gel, numbing the extremity carefully so that it would not get infected—she’ll heal, you know she will, but how much of that was because of the reactor? Her frightening strength and speed, her ability to take pain and damage that none of your soldiers could tolerate. How was that solid frame of defiance this small girl? So fragile and delicate under the vicious fauna of the Black Mercy—her chest rises and falls, but there’s no more life in her than there had been a four months ago—or seven months ago.

“I will be able to bridge your minds,” the wheezing hiss of the _algradian_ promises, his thin probing fingers smooth over Kara’s forehead, before they melt through her skin and settle somewhere in her mind. Kara’s face twitches, and then smooths. “What is done with that is up to you—you must make her wish to return.” Where is she, you wonder? What world has she been locked away in that she would wish to remain—you can imagine the places. The crystal beaches outside Argo City, where the calluria burrow—Kara had always loved to chase them, even if she’d never been able to catch them. The vermin were impossibly fast, but it had never deterred her. Or maybe the markets of Evinaqu, the planet that existed in a perpetual twilight—she’d loved their fine clothes, and had twirled herself tightly into the yards of fabric she’d found.

You feel how his mind reaches for yours—slithers in through your ears, and nose, and the corners of your eyes, and infests the madness of your mind. Takes up residence in the hollow corners where the things you’d once thought important had lived—mercy, and compassion, and justice. Fool’s errands, in the end. He plucks at your memories, digging phantom teeth into your thoughts until they tear and shred at the edges—just enough that he can tether Kara’s mind-scape to you. You’re stumbling backward until you’re against the cold metal of the wall—your eyes are opening, but you can’t see anything. Only black, and color, and in the distance the harsh red of Krypton’s surface—it’s a familiar view, and you squint to make it out.

But nothing becomes clearer—if anything, the harder you focus on it, the more out of focus it gets.

So you walk closer—your mind sliding out of your body, and into the ether, traveling along the delicate spirals of the _algradian’s_ hold; the silver threads he’d used to stitch your mind to Kara’s—to the Black Mercy’s ruse. You _know_ your body remains slumped on the floor, breathing shallowly, and growing cold—but you’re walking as well, getting further and further away from the safe madness of your own mindscape. You recognize the view—it’s the one from Kara’s window, looking out over the trade route to the west, where Rao would rise every morning.

An eagerness fills you, crawling inside your chest, because its _home_ , and you can’t wait to breath in Krypton’s air once more—you want it so _badly_ , that for a moment you forget that it’s a lie. A conjured untruth to keep your niece pliant and unaware. Just as you step off the vibrating silver cord, it sings sharply, and the window of black shuts behind you—a pop, and snap, and you’re _home_. Your hand is closed around something, cool and metal—even despite the heat in the air, and humid breath of smoldering weight that is Krypton.

“Aunt Astra, you came!” A voice shatters your resolve, and a body collides with you—it is Kara, so different from how you left her in Fort Rozz—there’s a brightening happiness about her. She _glows_ , and her hair curls perfectly—no spires of sharp unforgiving metal on her arm, no shadows in the blue of her eyes. She smiles so easily; white teeth and mirth.

“Little one,” you breathe out, and clutch her to your chest—carding fingers through the strands of her hair, darker than it was on Fort Rozz—more red-brown than blonde, closer to her mother’s, closer to _yours_. You imagine it must have been the influence of this yellow sun she speaks of rarely that caused her golden halo. “I have missed you dearly.” Tucking your nose into her hair, you inhale the smell of home—electric, and charged, and sweet. Like spun sugar.

Kara laughs—bells and chimes.

“It’s only been a day, Aunt Astra,” she reminds, and when she pulls away—you refuse to let her go, because you’ve been hovering over her inert body for eight months, while Non and his scientists try to remove the reactor from Kara’s arm. You’d haunted her room like a wraith, making sure you could do this one thing for her—keep her safe while she dreams. No one dies in the Phantom Zone—the Black Mercy could have her for eternity, and would never drain her. So you’d watch over her until the end of days—or until Non figured out how to open the rift.

You smile, and play along, “It feels so much longer.”

Years, and decades, and eternities. Smoothing your hands down the smooth white of her dress, perfectly tailored for the eldest heir of the great house of El. She’s gorgeous, with Rao’s light skipping through her darker hair, catching the blue of her eyes—she looks _happy_ , and you have to ruin that. Because none of this is real.

“Kara, do you trust me?”

Blinking, she steps back—forcing your hands to drop to your sides, “Of course.”

But there is a shiver in the air—ions and electricity—and you know the Black Mercy’s aware of your presence. The fabric of this place stretches and rotates, but Kara doesn’t seem to notice it. Doesn’t seem t feel the shift of perception. Her lips are pressed into a smile, but some of the shrewdness you’d witness in Fort Rozz flickers into her eyes—little pieces of the person she had been without Krypton, the person she’d became on the other side of the galaxy.

“You need to come with me,” you ask softly, coaxing her away from the shifting reality around her, and when you step toward her, everything weavers. Like a ripple leaking into the color of the world—Krypton seems less red outside the window, the crystals less blue. “We have to go, because something horrible will happen if we don’t.” Kara will be lost here, in this perfectly constructed world of hers—she’ll live on a dead planet, and her soul will die slowly—carve out the dark of her mind, and leave her a living husk.

“No,” she’s firm, shaking her head slightly while placing the spy beacon down on the clear table set before her. “No, everything’s alright. Mother made sure of it.” Absolute certainly, conviction you’re envious of, but there are flickers at the edges of her eyes. Little shadows of doubt, and it makes you wonder if the Black Mercy even knows what Kara really wants—your darling girl had grown bright, and hard, and good, in your absence, but there’s a mystique to her. An edged truth in her heart that is double bladed and noble.

“The planet’s dying, little one,” you start, and stop, because you take another step—and the world shudders, like it’s buckling under the weight of your added mind, “Our planet _died_ ; I’m so sorry I couldn’t save it—I’m sorry you had to grow up alone.” You’re talking to her softly, the spy beacon glowing and clutched in your hand, and you’re saying all the things you can’t say in reality—where she looks at you with shuttered eyes, having lived whole lives away from you. And the things you couldn’t prevent.

“No,” she’s still saying, over and over, squinting against the brightening sun, and steady despite the shaking ground beneath her.

“Yes,” you counter, “This is wonderful, and I wish it was true—but our home is no more. You’ve lived more of your life on Earth, than you ever did Krypton—I’m so sorry.” Your eyes are wet, and Kara’s face crumbles—but only for a moment, only for a second before something settles. The red sky bleeds to purple, and then to blue—streaking across the horizon as the house around you shatters into a million pieces.

“—Earth,” she says slowly, blinking around like she’s just noticing that something is wrong. That this mindscape is collapsing, and you’re filled with hope, because she’s looking at you like she understands what’s happening. “Aunt Astra—what’s happening?” Her voice is hoarse, like she’s suddenly remembering that she hasn’t spoken in months.

“You’ve succumbed to the Black Mercy, little one—Non has the reactor.” You’re standing directly in front of her, and have grabbed both of her hands, pulling her along with you, back toward the silver cords stitching together the dream behind you—where you try to drag her back to reality.

Her laugh is sharp, and odd, and her eyes are glossy, “He won’t be able to use it,” she says gleefully, “No one can, but me.” She gets a considering look, and something clears a little in her eyes, “Well—” The ground rumbles, and the fissures in the red valley behind the house burst with sharp energy you know is coming from the core, and you don’t know what’s happening—Kara can’t die in the Phantom Zone, and this dream is supposed to exist until she does. Why is it deteriorating?

You hear footsteps, and spin to find a woman standing at the top of the stairs—she’s diminutive, but there’s something regal in her bearing. The way she has her shoulders rolled back, the easy authority laced through her frame. She’s wearing the strangest clothing—light colored, and tight, and it simply must restrict her movement, but it doesn’t bother her in the least as she takes the stairs confidently. Curls of blonde brushing her shoulders, lips painted red and curled into a smile.

“This isn’t the home you long for most,” the woman says, her green eyes bleeding black—color and white swallowed by the dark. “It was buried under the pain of your lost world—but now I’ve found it.” You don’t understand—the illusion is crumpling, _why_ isn’t Kara being released? Why does it feel like her mind is drifting further and further away from you? Kara’s hands growing cold in your grasp, like she’s whole quadrants away even though she’s right in front of you.

“Cat,” your niece breathes the name like it’s made of star systems and precious gems, and she’s pulling away from you—crossing the distance to catch the blonde woman by the cheeks. They lean together like they’re two stars spiraling around each other, caught in the gravitational pull, and unwilling to shake themselves free. The red-brown is bleeding from Kara’s hair, turning burnished gold—the white gown of house El melting into something loose, and mismatching, with strange yellow creatures pressed into the light green fabric.

“Where’re the boys?” Kara asks, suddenly seeming older, and so far away.

The blonde woman—Cat—smiles, and tips her lips to touch Kara’s, “Right here.”

And Krypton dies for a second time—shattered into splinters of white.

When you blink your eyes open again, Kara’s standing in front of a teenage boy—he’s taller than your niece, with shaggy dark hair and thick glasses. The way he shoves hands into his pockets and slouches reminds you of Kara—it’s in how he tries to make himself smaller. She’s shifting just enough, that you can see the small boy on her hip—dark of hair, and blue of eye as well—but there’s something that brings the blonde woman to mind, the woman who had been able to shatter one illusion, and coax Kara into this new one.

One that feels so much sturdier than Krypton—there’s no ripple when you walk closer, no doubt when you look into Kara’s eyes. They’re a little family of three, in a lab that looks suspiciously like Zor El’s—advanced, and messy, and unorganized. Notes everywhere in Kryptonese, with gadgets forgotten on counters, and devices thrown to the corners of the desks. But one in particular stands one—a device that looks almost unfinished, but you’d always seen tethered to your niece’s arm.

“What’s that?” The teenage boy asks, and Kara pushing his bangs out of his eyes—smiling when he shies away.

“That’s a temporal reactor—it breaks through the fabric of this reality, and lets you enter the next.” The way Kara is explaining seems mechanical, and out of character, and you _swear_ her eyes catch yours while she looks through the laboratory—they’re clear for a _moment_ , before they cloud over and soften with this new truth of hers. “Our people called it the phantom zone.”

The boy whistles, “Sounds pretty damn dangerous.”

Kara scowls, “Language, Clark.” Before she shuffles the baby on her hip and gently untangles fingers from her blonde curls, he giggles—she giggles, and then turns to look back at the reactor. “Well, it would be dangerous if anyone other than me, could activate it. I bound the sequencer to my genetic code—so, actually, I suppose you’d be able to use it too.” His slow, sly, grin make her shove him in the shoulder, “Don’t get any ideas.”

Their little moment is broken when the door slides open behind you and they are all suddenly looking at you—no, through you—it’s like you don’t even exist in this world. This reality where her family is bright, and happy, and she smiles more genuinely. Now that he’s looking at you, you can see Lara’s nose, and Jor El’s bright blue eyes—those eyes that every member of the house of El, seems to have. They’re cousins standing shoulder to shoulder, and you suddenly understand what had been asked of Kara—the secrets she’d been keeping from you when you asked after her life.

The blanks in the stories—this is Clark, you know that much, but he is also Kal El, son of Jor El.

Everything suddenly makes so much more sense.

“You said this little stop would only take a minute,” someone behind you grouses, and the clink of heels makes you turn to watch as the blonde woman—Cat—who had dragged Kara to this illusion sashays past. She’s dressed in perfectly tailored clothing, and the little boy gurgles and half throws himself at the woman—only to be caught by expectant arms. “How’s my baby boy? Is your mama boring you with all this science?” She coos, tickling under the boy’s jaw, while Kara huffs in exasperation.

“Z _rhueiao_ ,” she whines, and it’s the final piece sliding perfectly into place—Kara calls this woman _lovely_ with such care. Like this little martian could build whole worlds with her delicate seeming hands. They fold together, the boy between them, while Jor El’s son gags dramatically—they don’t pay him any mind, linking hands with matching rings, and pressing their foreheads together. “Catherine Grant, you make me the happiest Kryptonian in the galaxy.”

This blonde—Catherine Grant—smiles, “I’m not so sure about that, supergirl.” She demurs, but she’s smiling, and happy—and Kara’s happy—and this world is _strong_ , where Krypton had been weak and brittle. Your home world had been remembered from dreams and nightmares only—but this one is where her life has been lived. “Have you seen the heathen look at a meat lover’s pizza? Now _that’s_ true happiness.”

As if on cue, Kal El’s—Clark’s—stomach rumbles.

You feel your own stomach roil, and whatever had been allowing you to stay is pulling you back—little silver cords stitching into your wrists and shoulders, pulling you backward—away from Kara. But she looks at you once, like she can finally see you, tilting her chin down, lips pressed against her son’s forehead—hands laced through with her _Zrhueiao_ —she raises her eyebrows, and blinks slowly. Her free hand raises like she’s saying goodbye—but halfway through the motion, recognition dissolves, and she’s blinking away your memory.

You have no place in this world—no grasp strong enough to bring her out of the illusion.

You feel the cords tug you away, and close your eyes.

When you open them, you’re back in Fort Rozz—the dim flickering light making your pupils shrink, the toxic air threatening to choke you. The _silence_ buffering in on all sides. You’re looking at Kara’s hand on the table—how it’s curled like fingers are slotting between hers.

“Seems you didn’t manage to snag our legend killer,” the _algradian_ laughs, coughing as he pulls his fingers from Kara’s forehead—the tips rusty like they’ve been sitting in old blood, and the aches in your body makes you wonder how long you’ve been slouched on the ground.

“Someone else has a firmer grip on her,” you say, jaw clenched as you stand to your full height. Shoulders back, a plan spinning to life in your mind—pieces and facts, and secrets finally told piecing together like a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were doing.

“And what’re we going to do about that?” You’d promised him freedom, and after months of watching Non flounder away his disciples loyalty, he’d agreed to go fishing in Kara’s mind. You want to escape this hellish prison, the madness clattering away inside your mind _aches_ for it—but you are going to do this for Kara, it’s the part of you that doesn’t want to be selfish. But you know you are—you allowed her to be snared, because for a moment, freedom had seemed more important.

And you have to live with that—with the sickness in your stomach that says maybe Kara is lost to you forever.

“We’re going to find someone to release that grip.” The numbness in your veins at your failure is chilling, but walking up beside Kara’s bed, you trace a knuckle down the angle of her cheek. Seeing the smile that has settled on her face unconsciously—as harrowing as it was, you learned something that Non has been searching for. The device can only be used by Kara—or Kal El, who is unreachable.

And you.

“But first, we need to cause a rather large explosion,” the pieces slot together too easily, the chaos and destruction almost second nature by now, “The nuclear cell in the aft engines is overdue for a cleaning—we should probably start there.”

After you steal Kara’s reactor back from Non, that is.


	37. snap shot 37. ( 4, 16, 18 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _Trying to put value to the future is impossible. There’s nothing tangible, nothing to weigh and measure. But you like to pretend you can see the writing on the wall. That every choice you make is sound, and logical, and right. But—but you’re still young, and you’re handled readily by your emotion. Anger, and fear, and love. Who are you without these things? You hope to never find out._

* * *

The ring of the doorbell splits the silence of your mother’s three story _manor._

Not a mansion—because, according to her, only pretentious new-money housewives had mansions.

Not _your_ manor—because, well, you’re already packing up all your belongings to leave.

You know who it is going to be before you even open the door—because your mother had told you who to expect. Of course, she’d told you as she slung a bag over her shoulder and left for some ostentatious gala in Metropolis—not a care for how _you_ felt about it, but that was business as usual. She’d been in a particularly bitter mood the last few weeks, and you’d been wondering what had caused it—not that there _had_ to be a reasoning. She tended to be a bitch just because she felt like it, half the time.

“Don’t _think_ about going with that girl,” she’d hissed with fingers clenched tight around your arm—nails digging in, but you’d refused to show her any pain. Gritting your teeth and squaring your jaw had been your only response, and you’d looked for something in her cool gray eyes—there was just bristling consideration in her, and her grip had tightened. You knew you’d have another bruise—the faint mark of fingers around your arm, and you internally curse your pale thin skin.

“You might be going to college in the fall, Kitty, but I believe _she’s_ still here for a little while yet.” She knew she had you, that the only way you would have stayed home tonight was to protect Kara. Your mother had enough sway with the board of the school to make Kara’s life hell—academically, and you know how much going to college would mean to Kara’s grandfather. The old man couldn’t hide how proud he was of his grandchildren, even if Clark was only just learning to color inside the lines—you’d spent enough afternoons with mister Callaghan framing poorly colored pictures, and good report cards.

Sometimes even bad ones.

“I get it, mother.” You had ground out between gritted teeth, “I won’t leave the property,” and she’d flashed you a smile that was hardly happy, just _smug_. She released your arm, and swept through the house gathering her bags so that she could throw them at the driver who had been waiting patiently in the driveway.

“Oh, I’ve already arranged an alternative for you,” nostrils flared, and sunglasses perched on a hawkish nose, “No proper girl should miss her prom.”

And she’d left.

Walking down the stairs, you’re in no rush to answer the door, because you’re dreading the confrontation. You aren’t in the mood—you’d spent the whole afternoon crying, face pressed into your pillows because you knew there was no one to hear you sob. You’d called Kara, and told her that you weren’t feeling well—that you weren’t able to go—and she’d been too understanding. After all, _you_ had been the one to make a big deal out of tonight—it would be your first _official_ outing together. You thought you were ready for that, for the spotlight and the whispers. It was something of the worst kept secret in Yeux Clairs Academy, but you’d always vehemently denied it. You had never been ready before.

You hate that some small, scared part of you is relieved.

Unlocking and pulling the door open with a little more force than absolutely necessarily—you meet Jack Ellis’ eyes.

“Cat,” he says, eyes squinting a little at the light now pouring through the open front door. He’s conventionally handsome—dark hair combed back perfectly, liquid brown eyes, and a dimpled chin. His cheekbones would probably give Greek deities self-esteem issues—he’d definitely grown into his face since you’d dated briefly freshman year. His suit is black, and his vest a soft green that would match the gown hanging on the back of your bedroom door precisely. It’s upstairs because you have no intention of going.

Jack immediately notices.

“You aren’t dressed,” he observes, hands still in front of him, holding onto an intricately wrapped box that you can only assume is a corsage. You’re dressed in black leggings and a Seattle Seahawks shirt. Usually you wouldn’t let anyone other than Kara see you like this—but you were making a statement.

“That’s because I’m not going.”

Jack’s brow pinches, like he’s confused, because it smooths out and he smiles—it’s a nice smile, so much softer than the ones he gives at school, or when out with his friends. You’d never thought of him as _human_ —he was an arrogant bastard, and mindless blow-hard.

“I should have known that this wasn’t your idea,” arms drop to him sides, the box clutched in one hand and he licks his lips. “Your mother can be damned persuasive.”

You laugh, “Try living with her.”

His dark, dark eyes glance down to the bruise you know is just hinted at from beneath your sleeve—you tug it down to cover it, even though you know it’s too late. “I don’t think I’d want to.”

You don’t know if you should invite him in, or just send him away, and you’re both left standing awkwardly in the door like there’s more to be said, even if neither of you knows exactly what that would be. Word was he got accepted to Columbia University for pre-med, even though he had no desire to be a doctor. It was the kind of things spoiled rich kids told each other in the dark of high school hallways—no matter the animosity. Because the weight was a spectacularly unique one—to have all the opportunity, and all the chances, but to be limited by the expectation of others. To be fed guilt, and shame, and remorse like supplements to your health until you simply couldn’t buck the pressure anymore.

“I heard you got accepted into Wellesley,” he says, breaking the silence, fishing for something to say, “Congratulations, that’s great.” The stranger at the door isn’t the boy who smirks through the halls at school, or who clambered to the top of the class by any means necessary. He’s softer, and considerate, and you feel a kind of discomfort that goes hand in hand with not expecting a situation.

“Yeah, thanks,” inhaling, you make the choice, and step to the side, allowing him to walk past you into the foyer. Not any further, but you don’t want to keep standing at the door like an idiot. “Brown, too, but I’m enrolling at the university here in National City.” _That_ was something your mother didn’t know yet—she’d gotten the acceptance letters from Wellesley, Brown, and Yale—as well as the University of California, and Williams College. Had fawned over them to her co-workers like they were her child—you just happened to be attached to _their_ achievement—these great institutes of learning. She’d emphasized at dinners how it would be so difficult to narrow it down, when there were so many _superior_ options.

You’d put in your admissions application at the second deadline—because you’d been carrying the papers around for two months, but couldn’t bring yourself to committing the act. Then, you’d lost them—and whatever courage you’d had to even _think_ about it, had dissolved and you’d relegated yourself to going wherever your mother decided. Only for them to show back up a day or two later, on the back table at the _Bruised Apple_ , certain places filled out.

“You left these on the counter last night,” mister Callaghan had said, leaning beside the cash register, catching his breath from walking up the basement stairs without his oxygen mask. “Figured I’d start it for you, deadline’s tomorrow, after all.” He’d filled out mailing address—putting in the _Bruised Apple_ ’s address—and non-related reference; himself. He’d just patted your shoulder, and went back to doing stock—which was really just sitting on a chair and listening to Clark try to explain what was happening on his favorite television show—which usually involved a lot of explosion noises, and rapid hand gestures.

The University of National City wasn’t a bad school, it was actually pretty damned decent—but it’s wasn’t lauded for any particular subject, and its alumni weren’t very well known—two professional athletes, and one junior Senator from Rhode Island. Their English and Journalism departments were pretty new, but were all very promising—two speakers had praised the curriculum, and said it was a good _alternative_. If you went to the particular private academy you went to and _didn’t_ have a perfect GPA, and influential parents, and _too many_ extra-curricular activities.

The fantasy you had growing up of moving across the country to escape your mother had been clipped at the wings when you met Kara—the girl with eyes too blue, and a smile just this side of goofy. She’s contorted herself seamlessly through the cracks in your life, keeping all the pieces together so much easier than you had ever managed alone—and you couldn’t imagine a world without her. Where she’d be three-thousand miles away, and a tinny crackling voice through a telephone. You didn’t want to come home on holidays to Clark being half a foot taller, and suddenly liking girls—or mister Callaghan succumbing to the cough that rocked through his chest when he thought they weren’t paying attention.

This family you’d adopted was here, and you suddenly wanted to be here too.

So you’d applied in spring—and been promptly accepted.

The acceptance letter was framed beside Kara’s _first_ report card (atrocious grades in everything, but math, and science) from Yeux Clairs Academy, and Clark’s tee-ball jersey, that mister Callaghan had the boy sign for when he was a famous baseball player one day.

But no one outside the Callaghans know this, so Jack looks surprised when you tell him—something in his jaw clenches, and his eyes squint. You’ve surprised him, and while that usually brings with it the burn of satisfaction, there’s only a warmth in your chest, because you’ve finally said it out loud to someone not in your little safe world. You’ve shattered the bubble, and you can’t imagine looking back.

“Don’t want to go far from home?” he asks, the corsage box being exchanged between his hand, like he isn’t sure what to do with it, so you snatch it from him, and set it down on the table. You don’t like when people fidget.

“Home can go fuck itself,” you say blithely, “but there are some things here I don’t want to be far from.”

Jack smiles, “Some things? Or someone?”

Now it’s your turn to squint, and try to discern what he’s trying to get at—you truly don’t know what to do, since this hasn’t dissolved into senseless snide remarks and cruel smiles like any interaction between you two at school. People give any meeting of Ellis and Grant wide berth if they can.

“Maybe, what’s it to you?”

You’re trying to make him mad, because this just feels weird, but Jack seems determined to be cordial. You hate cordial people. So, instead of snapping back—like he usually does—he reaches into his wallet and starts rifting through it. Ridiculously crisp bills, and platinum cards that has his father’s name on them, and all the way at the back is a picture. A boy—around your age, maybe a little older—smiling wide for the camera. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and the hotdog and mustard walking in the background lets you know it was taken during Halloween. He has light eyes, and blond hair, and the kind of tan that would make the Jersey Shore blush.

“That’s Jordan,” he says, and you don’t understand; but you look a little harder like maybe the solution is in the well-stitch sequins on his western style vest. You don’t see the sparkle in Jack’s eye, “My boyfriend.”

Blinking, you look up, and Jack is looking away—pale cheeks a little red, eyes shifting too much to really be seeing. His hands have shoved into his pockets, and he’s leaning back against the door and you’re trying to process—he’s dated nearly every girl in the school, there’s more than one rumor about illicit affairs in bathrooms and broom closets. But then again—there’s rumors about you, as well, and none of those had ever happened. “Excuse me?” You say instead, because it bears repeating, but there’s something cool and strange in your bones now.

A knowledge.

“My boyfriend,” stronger now, more firm, like he’s decided he isn’t running from this, “Like how Kara is your girlfriend.”

“She’s not—I don’t—,” but you stop, because in his dark eyes is the same uncertainty you feel every time you think someone’s seen you curl your fingers around Kara’s, or you’re standing too close because you like feeling the heat of her at your side. He looks afraid, and no one should look afraid for admitting something like this.

Slow breathing, “how long’ve you been together?”

“Three months. You?

Now you smile, “Ten months—or since the day we met.”

He laughs, and raises a hand to press against his forehead, “when I chased you down the street and she almost fed me my own fist?” His face turns, morphing and sliding, and becoming something more familiar. A little of the cold that lives in him, the anger and the remembered sneers—they’re part of him, as they are part of you too, but—but love is softer. It makes you softer—maybe it does that to him too.

“You’re lucky you stopped being a douche bag,” you return, humming under your breath, “I’ve seen her fold someone in halves.” It was a playful wrestling match between cousins—but Clark had promptly tapped out, didn’t matter that he was four. There’s a moment—then two, and then you have to ask, “So what are we doing?”

Jack Ellis—the home coming king, to your home coming queen, the sneering bully at every corner—shrugs, and takes back the picture he’d offered you. What does he tell himself when he looks at the mirror? What does he say to justify everything he’s willing to do to hide? The same things _you_ say? “Well, _I’m_ going to go meet Jordan downtown, and give him this lovely corsage,” he tips the box, “and _you_ have to make your way to the back yard.”

You’re left confused, and unsure—but he smiles, and says something slowly about how rumors will take care of the rest, but you’re already turning in place to look out the back windows. There’s nothing in sight, just darkness, and the occasional flicker of light from some vehicle down the road. The front door closes, and the kitchen floor is cold beneath your feet as you unlock the sliding glass door and open it, stepping out onto the back porch.

And everything comes to life.

White lights strung from the corners of the porch, spiraling up into the branches of the tree just behind your window, and stretching out across the back lawn to curl around the gazebo. They’re swaying slightly in the breeze, but they’re _everywhere_. Another cord is tangled up into the branches you would tell Clark to not climb, even though he always did. There’s the gurgle of the in-ground pool—water sloshing and slapping against the filter, but just slightly louder, is music. _We’ll do it all, everything. On our own._ It’s coming from the speakers nestled in the garden, in faux rocks, and fountain spigots. The song you can recognize by the first bar of music. _We don’t need, anything, or anyone._ One that Kara’s always humming under her breath when you’re trying to take a nap, and she just has too much energy.

The motion sensor flickers on—bright and makes you squint.

And suddenly, Kara’s standing there.

She’s wearing a suit—no, a tuxedo—and you recognize it as the one you’d pointed out in passing when you’d been out. Thin lapels, and a slim tie hugging curves you know Kara’s uncertain about—you most certainly aren’t unsure. The pale, pale celadon green shirt mixed well with the dark green vest. She’s a vision, even though she’s wearing scuffed Converse, that have more than a little mud on them—and the bottoms of her pants. And you can see that one of her jacket sleeves are dripping slightly, but she’s gorgeous. Golden curls in ringlet, and a swooping French braid that looks positively artisan.

Your eyes are wet, and you don’t notice that you’ve stepped down two of the porch steps until she’s walking toward you. _I don’t quite know, how to say—how I feel._

“What’re you doing here?”

She smiles, eyes squinting just a little, “No one should miss prom.”

“You didn’t even want to go,” You sniffle, and you must look like an idiot—but you’d never know it looking at her. She looks at you like you’re her world; cheeks a little flushed, eyes widening, and tongue peeking out over her bottom lip.

“When’re you gonna realize, Cat?” One step up, and your nose to nose. You can feel how the warmth bleeds through her clothes, and you shiver—putting it down to late-June breezes. _If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lay with me and just forget the world?_ Her hands land on your hips, and you’re reminded that while she’s dressed to the nines, you’re in what amount to pajamas. Not that she seems to notice.

Kara finishes her thought, “I’d do anything for you.”

You can’t help yourself from kissing her—cupping her cheeks and pressing your lips against hers. It tastes like salt and love, and you’re five tear drops in before you even realize you’re crying. She’s laughing softly into your mouth and curling fingers into your hair, keeping you close—sharing air. _All that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes, they’re all I can see._ “I don’t deserve you,” you murmur, because she’s _perfect_. She’s kind, and beautiful, and _patient_. And you're—you. Whatever that is. You’re a girl who totters on the edge of oblivion like it’s a lifestyle, because you can’t bring yourself to upsetting the people in your life who _don’t matter_.

“You deserve everything,” she replies, shifting to wrap her arms around your waist and hoisting you up against her body. You steady yourself on her shoulders, feeling them flex dramatically below your fingers—you bury your face in her neck until there wet grass between your bare toes. “I’m not going anywhere—you’re stuck with me.” Her breath caresses the curve of your ear, and you’re swaying together to the music; barely moving, because you know Kara’s worried about stepping on your feet.

“How did you know?”

How did Kara know you needed her reassurance? How did she know you were crumbling and trying to convince yourself you weren’t? You’d wanted to keep your mother’s cruelties and threats from her; wanted her to stay happy, and content. You didn’t want her to run—but here she is. Wrapping your house in lights, and chasing away the darkness that lingers in the halls like ghosts.

“I nursed you through that bout of the flu you had last year,” she reminds, while you laugh—she’d been inconsolable. A shaking mess, always wondering if your next breath would be your last. She’d been entertaining enough that you’d been able to mostly ignore the fact that she was seeing you in such a state. “I know what you sound like when you aren’t feeling well—and what I heard on the phone? That was sadness, not sickness.”

Kara’s warm and wrapped around you—her heart thundering in your ear, fast and strong—and this feels better than any school organized function could hope. She’s humming along to the song, and turning you this way and that, and your toes are on the tips of her shoes, to make sure she doesn’t crush them. You think about what your mother would say if she saw this; what vitriol would spill out of her, but you do feel a little smug.

Technically, you hadn’t lied—you didn’t leave the property. But that brought you to something else.

“How did Jack know?”

She flushes, “He may have seen me walking down the driveway with the boxes.”

You’re startled into laughter, and she flushes further.

“I love you, Kara Callaghan.”

A chaste kiss—a promise, “I love you too, Catherine Grant.”


	38. snap shot 38. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (MARTHA)**. _Your favorite constellation is the stars you’d held in your hands for only a moment, before they’d fallen away, and back up into the sky._ // Prompt from, anonymous.

* * *

You’re thirty-five when you find your second starling.

She’s small—no older than twelve or thirteen, but something about the jut of her chin and the round of her eyes makes you think her ancient. Her jaw's clenched, you can see it even from this far away; a pretty little thing. Auburn hair a snarl of strands around her face, tangled and matted, but it doesn’t—detract, oddly enough. Because there’s something _alive_ about her, and you can’t quite put your finger on it. You can only make out the right side of her face, but what you can see is tanned skin dark with dirt, caked deep, and smudged like she’d rubbed at it with her fingers.

“You lost, dear?” She’s looking right at you, but the way her chin snaps would make you think she hadn’t seen you—like she’d been looking right through you. She takes a running step back—impressive for someone who’d been standing still—and trips over the edge of the driveway, falling down onto gravel and rock. You’re half-way down the steps before you realize, and she’s pushing little palms through the jittering rocks like she could make them disappear if she tried hard enough.

“No, no, sweetheart,” you try soothing, “You’re gonna hurt yourself,” but when you get close enough to touch, she goes still—laying half on her stomach, fists full of rocks, she’s peering at you through tangles of hair, and she’s stopped breathing—going completely still like she’ll vanish if she doesn’t catch your eye. Closer now, you see she still has the chub of youth, childish and endearing. You look for any blood, any way she’d hurt herself while trashing—and there’s nothing. Just dust settling into the moist dirt covering most of her body.

She’s shuffling back—away from you—and you didn’t realize there was any sand in the gravel, because from between her fingers is whole fistfuls of dust—fine and white. Her eyes are blue—bright and scared, and her pupils only pinpricks, which sits oddly in your stomach—there’s almost no light out, they should be a little wider. You’re worried she might’ve hit her head, but those worries won’t do you any good until she lets you get a little closer.

“Why don’t I take you inside,” slow, and soft, like you’re talking down a skittish colt, demur eye contact, fingers open and raised only slightly. Her eyebrows tuck, and she moves a little further away, but you don’t move, “We can get you cleaned up, and we’ll help you get home.” She’s still, jaw clenched, but there’s a flinch, a widening of eyes— _home_. “That what you want, sweetheart? Home?” She leans closer, chin lowered, and little nostrils flare—tears are welling in her eyes, they fill in a moment, and when they fall, you can’t stop yourself from catching her dirty little face in your hands and cooing softly.

“No, no, baby,” you sooth, pushing away tears, and she’s not really seeing you through the wet—not really giving you much mind, because she’s shuddering and sobbing, and it’s sad because it’s soundless—silent whole-body shakes quiet as the dark as she crumbles before you. Her fingers spread wide, dropping nearly crushed rocks, and she’s swaying, and only pauses when her forehead comes in contact with your shoulder—presses into the denim of your shirt and freezes, before curling closer and sucking in deep breaths. “It’s okay—everything’s okay.” But it clearly isn’t, even if you don’t know what _it_ is—the screen door opens, and Jonathan walks out—your little starling tucked into the crook of his arm.

The boy had fallen from the sky, skipped right through the clouds and landed in the field behind the house; it’d taken near a week to put his ship down below the barn. You’d both been waiting on baited breaths for some otherwise unnamed government agency to roll through the property and claim the ship—and the boy—as their property. You’d spent whole nights waiting up by the window, your finger held in the shockingly tight grip of the infant boy—scanning the horizon for headlights.

No one ever came.

Except this girl.

The sound of the door clattering shut makes the girl thrust herself backwards abruptly, which really seems to mean _you’re_ pushed a good ten feet away, elbows and knees churning up grass and gravel. You blink through the skipping colored dots, and see Jonathan’s face above yours—he’s talking, or at least his lips are moving, but you’re worried about the girl. You find her—halfway across the yard, back pressed into the side of Jonathan’s truck—she’s pressed _into_ the truck, quite literally. The metal and frame warping around her tiny body, the groan and creak of solid metal whines as she digs her bare heels in a little harder, and the wheels rock up on one side until it’s balanced delicately on the two remaining wheels.

“Martha,” your husband whispers, a cautious warning in his words, pressing your little starling into his shoulder tightly, fingers flexing like he very much intends to find the rifle you’d forbidden him to keep anywhere but the safe in the basement.

“She’s just a girl, Jonathan,” you sooth, keeping your voice light and soft, even though you know she shouldn’t be able to hear you properly, you somehow know she can. “Scared out of her mind.” She’s trembling, a quiver in every part of her, and the mess that she is just makes it all that much sadder. Your hip protests when you step forward, and your elbow smarts, but you’re determined—and your father had said you’d be able to weigh yourself in tenacity alone. Something you’d gotten from your mother.

“It’s alright, sweetheart.” She’s watching you with back burning eyes, blue—but somehow other colors too—red, and gold, and just _bright_. “No one’s mad; everything’s alright.” She’s leaning forward, allowing the truck to sit on all four wheels again, though she’s still shivering violently. Scared, and alone, and confused. She’s watching you like she might understand, but there’s the skittish nature of a cat about her. Like any sudden movement will cause her to bolt away into the dark. The burn in her eyes fades, leaving them blistering and wet, a blue you could probably only find on your sister’s paint palette. Her lips are pressed tightly together, and her chin wobbles silently while she regards you.

And then your little starling takes a deep breath, and cries.

She _bolts_ like you expect her to—but not away into the dark, and further into the side of your husband’s _ruined_ Silverado—no, she’s at the base of the porch, before your husband before you can _blink_. A flash, a snap, and when the sound follows her you are left with a dry mouth and wide eyes. Jonathan pinwheels one arm, startled, and falls back against the porch. The movement jostles the boy, and he screams again, two little fists clenched and waving in front of him.

And the girl—the girl is _fuming_.

The glow is back in her bright blue eyes, hot and sharp, the air tasting like metal and ozone, and you’re _afraid_. For the first time. She’s walking slowly, stepping carefully around Jonathan’s extended leg until she can get a proper look at the boy. “ _Klarh ke_ ,” she breathes, and her voice is wind chimes and fresh linen, the kind of voice your mother’d give the angels when she read you stories about them. “ _Klarh ke, Kal-El_.” And the damnedest thing—with angels and cherubs flittering about in your mind—the girl’s feet lift from the ground like she’s simply forgotten she’s supposed to be on it. Only a foot, maybe two, and she’s looking down at your starling—and he’s looking up at her, blinking eyes all dark pupil, little hands tucking close. Until they reach out again.

To her.

“ _Khap ahvig rrup, klarh ke._ ” She’s crying again, the big drops rolling down curved cheeks; her smile—it’s _beautiful_. She’s laughing through her tears, and the boy’s giggling, making a sound in his chest almost like a chirp—half whistle, half bird call. The girl makes one in turn—a little softer, lower, and you’re not sure, but you feel like they’re communicating with the sounds. Jonathan’s trying to slide away, to move out of the corner he’s wedged himself—the stairs on one side, the porch at his back, and the girl just before him. But a small hand clamps down on his arm, and he hisses—which makes the girl release him, the boy to giggle, and your husband stay still.

“She was the other one,” you realize.

Jonathan watches her carefully, “That one wasn’t landing for a good few hundred miles the rate it was going.”

Your starling had crashed, but there’d be another—a faster, larger meteorite—that had cruised low overhead and disappeared off into the distance. You’d thought about it up until the point that you’d lifted your little boy up from his celestial bassinet, and felt the weight of him in your arms. You wonder who had been there to greet her—was she lifted from the pod into safe arms, were there black vans and spot lights waiting for her on the ground.

It doesn’t seem to matter, because she’s crying through a smile, and Jonathan only resists her attempt to grab the boy for a few moments before she has him cradled close. Feet two feet off the ground, small body curling around him like she can protect him from everything. Little fingers are twirling through her hair, tugging them, but she only laughs. She’s saying something, garbled little half words, but you can’t make them out—not through the sobbing hiccups that are wracking her body.

Two little starlings that had fallen out of the sky.

* * *

She spends the night on the porch with the boy—not _your_ boy, because you see the relation in their features, even as young as they are. You leave her blankets, and books, and a knapsack full of juice and crackers.

When you’d gone to check on her, she’d been crying silently, the tears falling off her dimpled chin, and she’d blinked at you like you were only just swimming into focus. So you’d stay on the far side of the porch, grabbing the first book you could reach, and cracked the spine. Speaking softly, and slowly, you know she has no idea what you’re saying, but maybe it only matters that you’re saying _something_.

“All children, except one, grow up—,”

* * *

In the morning, when you wake from your uncomfortable sleep on the porch chair—she’s gone.

As is the knapsack full of juice and crackers—and your worn copy of _Peter Pan and Wendy_.

* * *

You’re forty when you learn of her life.

You don’t see her again for years. There’s stretches of time when you almost forget about the little starlings you’d caught once upon a time. Farms are hard work, and small towns make lingering on secrets kind of difficult—like space ships in basements, and aliens amongst us. You don’t like to think about them, because you remember how that boy had felt in your arms—light enough to barely be anything at all, but so heavy in your heart. He’d been an answer to a prayer you hadn’t realized you’d been asking. For a child, someone to call your own.

There’s no spaceships, or tears, or bolts of speed—she knocks on your door like every other person. You don’t recognize her at first—her hair is lighter, golden blonde, and her skin is tanned. The only thing that remains are those eyes—blue as blue can be, and she doesn’t flinch when the door bangs open. Doesn’t dash away when you open arms wide, and remains still when you wrap her up tight—squeezing just this side of painful. But this girl had totaled a Chevy Silverado with little more than her body, and a head start.

There’s a little undignified squawk, but she wraps her arms around you slowly; hands lighting carefully on your back, like she’s afraid to make too much contact. Stepping back, and holding her at arm’s length, you see she’s growing _tall_. Almost your height, and thin as a stick—all arms and legs, with a set of shoulders on her, despite the fact that they’re slumped and curled.

“Little starling,” you say happily, and she licks her lips, looking unsure, “That’s what I’ve been calling you all these years—you and the boy.”

The way her eyes list to the side, makes you realize that skittish little creature is still in there, just pressed down inside. “Clark—uhm, his name is Clark.” She supplies, and then awkwardly—in the way children do when they’re trying to be an adult—juts her hand out between your bodies, for a handshake, “I’m Kara.”

You accept the handshake, “A pleasure to meet you, Kara.”

She smiles, and you have no idea what’s happened in her life, but she looks happy—though, you suppose you don’t know what happiness is supposed to look like on fallen stars. Maybe this is absolute depression, and it manifests in grins and cheer. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” You say instead, and she bobbles a nod, and follows in your wake. Hands tucked in pockets, shoes completely unsuited for farm land, she hobbles ungracefully over dirt and grass that has been freshly churned by tractor wheels—you expected her to be more—otherworldly.

But she’s just a teenage girl.

She laughs a little too loudly, and fiddles with a curl of her hair when she’s distracted—she runs her finger tips along the roses in your garden, and smiles wide when you tell her she can pick one. She’s just a girl. And it’s humbling, and enlightening, and you wonder what a girl should be like wherever she’s from—the clouds, or stars, of galaxies.

You learn that she works at a bookstore, and Clark’s going to school—and she has a best friend. She doesn’t tell you exactly where she lives now, but the image she paints makes you imagine New York City, or Metropolis. Someplace with mile high buildings, and a million people. She’s seventeen, and she’s already graduated high school, “I tested out, because—because there was no reason to stay anymore,” and had promptly been accepted to the University of National City.

You want to ask her the whole time why she’s here, what made her come back after so many years; but she just seems to like walking in the fresh air and sunlight. You don’t ask what she is—how she can fly, or dent trucks—and she doesn’t offer anything up. You plan on bringing her to the ship still nestled underneath the barn, but she doesn’t seem concerned with it. And you realize you’ve been keeping her secret for years—you’ve had the evidence hidden this whole time, and—and she knows that.

“I wonder a lot,” she says with her feet dipped into the pond, “What would’ve happened if I had left him with you that night.” She swirls them around when a catfish gets a little too close, and you lean forward in the chair that’s nailed to the dock. “If I’d made a mistake—if he’d be happier if I had left him here to grow up with an actual family. A mother, and father.”

The dock creaks as the wind picks up, “What makes your family not— _actual_?”

She shrugs, and you wait, because teenagers are thoughtful things, even ones from wherever she’s from apparently, “He asks to call me _mom_ sometimes; not a lot. And I’m so happy, because he’s—he’s everything. But—but I know— _knew_ his mother. My aunt was beautiful, and kind, and smart—and—he _has_ a mother. And I’m not her.”

Your bones creak when you lift yourself out of the chair, and dip your bare feet in the water beside her, “You’re not her,” you agree, and she looks at you a little startled, but you smooth a hand up her arm and along her shoulder. Pulling so slightly she could easily resist, until she’s tucked to your side, this starling you couldn’t keep, “But you don’t need to be. Do you love him?”

You know the answer.

She does too.

“Of course,” it’s immediate, her eyebrows perking up, “Until the stars go dark.”

“Then I don’t see how you can think you made a mistake—loving someone is the hardest thing a person can do. It’s not something you deserve, not something that’s automatic. You love that boy, and you do right by him; that makes you a hero in my books, Kara.” She’s flushing, but smiling, and leaning into you like she’s asking you to hold her—without words—and you do. Because this girl has been on your mind for years, and you’re so glad she’s alright—her and her starling boy, Clark.

When the sun starts to set, you see her out to the porch, and there sitting where it had been five years ago—is the knapsack full of juice and crackers, and a worn ruined copy of Peter Pan. “This book might’ve saved me,” she whispers, fingering the spine reverently, and biting her lip when she looks up at you. “Would it be alright if I brought Clark next time? He’d love the pond.”

You don’t think you can agree any faster.

* * *

She wants to give to the book back—some kind of thank you—but you insist she keeps it, because you can’t imagine taking something that someone holds so carefully. She’s gone by the time Jonathan comes home, and you only tell him after you’ve developed the film role of the pictures you’d taken. Most of them are of cattle going to auction, but toward the end are tilted pictures of ducks, and a close up of a rose—and you standing proudly, with a golden haired cherub tucked under your arm.

* * *

You’re forty-two when you’ve learned how her heart breaks.

It’s only two years until the next time—it’s raining harder than you can remember in recent memory, slates of rain, the little pings of hail on the tin roof of the barn, but it’s the green, _green_ sky that worries you. Science tells you there’s no discernable reason to assume a green sky means a tornado—but fifty eight years in Kansas trumps any amount of science. You’re tacking down the barn doors, roping all the supplies into place, making sure if a wind spigot _was_ to happen, nothing would be a danger to the horses.

There’s a crash and clatter, the back door slamming against the side—wood screaming and splintering, and with how swiftly the wind is yelling past, you can’t muster up enough strength to pull it against the force, and securely latch it. You’re soaked through in moments, lightning cracking across the sky, your clothing ripping against you—the wind snarling the fabric around your shoulders and legs, nearly tripping you with the force.

And she appears.

Quiet as distant thunder, the sound seems to snap around her like it’s an opening fist. Rippling out from her suddenly _there_ frame. The wind tugs at her, gripping her clothes and pulling them—but she isn’t budging, her eyes lost to snarls of dark blonde hair, tangled around her face. She’s wearing a beautiful black dress—it was probably even more beautiful before it had become sodden with water. Lace, and trim, and cut just to the knees—at the back of her head is something that looks like it couldn’t been a veil, but it succumbs to the wind she’s apparently unaware of. Slipping off and into the distant green darkness.

“Kara,” you say her name, but you can’t even hear yourself over the scream and sneer of wind, but she looks at you. Blue, blue eyes that look black and hard, like diamonds, or the night sky—her face set sternly like chiseled marble, and you can only think how wrong it looks. She’s meant for smiles and cheer, for laughter and mirth. For the first time she looks truly alien—an all-powerful deity sprinkled with star dust and the kicked up color of the constellations.

She moves forward and curls deceptive fingers around the barn door, taking the weight from you—walking slowly, and casually forward, heedless of the destructive wind. Still like she isn’t sure it’s there—knowing it doesn’t apply to her. When it’s closed, you latch it firmly, and turn to see her. Kara hasn’t moved any of the hair out of her eyes, and there’s the slightest hint of black at the corners—it’s draining down her cheeks, the running eyeliner looks like pitch colored tears.

But, it’s the rain, right?

“Kara?” Now her name’s a question, and she snaps out of it.

“He’s dead,” for a moment your heart stops, and it must show because she continues, “Mister Callaghan—he died.”

The man who Kara adores—who had been able to chip through her skittish paranoia and had been able to keep her. You’d seen a picture once—an elderly gentleman between two grinning angels, dimpled and blue eyed and happy. He’d made that possible.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t fight you when you pull her in, collapsing against your chest and winding thin arms around your waist, and pressing her face into your chest. She’s absolutely quiet, not a sound coming from her—but she’s also gone still. Holding her breath, because she’s worried what’ll come out if she allows it. “Let it out, dear.”

And she does.

Large hiccupping sobs that shake her body hard enough to make you worry about if she’ll be able to keep herself together—her arms tighten, and her fingers scrabble for purchase on your rain jacket. She’s almost screaming, but the sound is warbling and low, and you can barely hear it against where she’s hiding her face on your shoulder. And you hold her. Because maybe right now she’s can’t keep herself together alone—this otherworldly girl who was so scared, and brave, and good.

You realize you’re crying too—for this man you never met—and you wish you could tell her it would all be alright. But this hurt will live inside her, will mark her and remind her of all the things that had been different only days ago. How whole worlds live inside a person, and all those who orbit in their gravitational pull. Planets, and comets snared by the pull of a collapsed star when it finally dies.

“I thought I couldn’t hurt any more than I already did,” she whispers, arms going loose, her weight just resting on you, and you’re worried that she’s getting thin—working herself too hard, minding herself too little. “That this would just—get lost in the old hurt, and I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t have to _feel_ it.”

When you move her away to rub your thumbs across her cheeks to clear the tears away, she’d hollow eyed and frowning. “But it hurts, Martha. It _hurts_.” Like a child who suddenly realized there was still fresh pain, that there would _always_ be new pain, because it never hurts the same way. It’s a blow that has never been struck, or sometimes just salt to an existing wound.

“It’s going to hurt, baby,” you sooth, combing her wet hair out of her face so you can really look at her—there’s very little _physically_ wrong, but it lives in her eyes. Cracked and shattered blue curls of color, that beseech you to explain why this is happening. “I wish it didn’t, but it does. It’s a part of life, unfortunately, and all we can do is remember everything they gave us before they left.”

You feel how her jaw clenches, and unclenches, and how she seems to sway ever so slightly on her feet, “It isn’t fair, you’re so—so breakable,” the words are wet, and somehow the you know she isn’t speaking about _you_ —but about everyone. The billions, upon billions, of people tottering through life. “How can you love someone, when you know they’re going to—they’re going to _die_?”

She isn’t sad right now, the flicker and burn of her eyes is back, filling in the hollow edges, and flooding the blue with a glowing ember. She’s _angry_ —at humanity, and fragility, at _death_. And you imagine a child that had tripped through the stars might feel such a way. Affronted by death.

“Because it’s worth it,” you say, because—because it’s the _truth_ , “Because when the hurt has abated, even a little. You’ll remember all the wonderful things you did with them. After days, or weeks, or months of feeling like you’ll never smile again—you’ll remember a horrible joke they liked to tell, or when they washed the clothes wrong, turning everything in the washer pink. Small little moments that you never thought of while they were alive—and you’ll laugh.”

Your father had never had the patience for the family dog when you’d been young—he’d go to the door and call the dog’s name for a minute, maybe two, but eventually he’d give up. “I’ll just leave the door open,” he’d say, only on nights that your mother was working late, because she’d tell him he’d let all manner of animal into the house that way. Sure enough, he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and in the morning you’d acquired three baby raccoons. All filling themselves with M&M’s and dry cat food.

It had been a month after the funeral when you’d thought of that night—triggered by a family size bag of M&M’s at the store.

Kara’ll have those moments, but not now, when the hurt is debilitating, and raw, and new.

“I don’t want to _remember_ him,” she says, loudly, “I want _him_.” But she’s deflating, shoulders falling out of their confrontational stance. Slouching, and curling, and stepping back—and back—and back, until her back is against a post.

And she stays there for the longest—curled up on the floor, wrapped around herself with her face buried in her arms. You sit beside her, every bone in your body protesting the poor posture and you know you probably won’t be getting up anytime soon. The wind makes the wood groan and bow inward, the nails almost vibrating out of the planks. Kara doesn’t seem to notice—

Until the tornado sirens start.

Splitting even the deafening rumble of thunder and patter of hail, they’re unmistakable, and you wonder how bad it’s going to be this time. It’s the season for it—and everyone you know has a storm cellar, but coming up in the morning to the destruction wrought is devastating. Picking through rubble looking for precious things; you volunteer, you donate, but just once you wish you could help _before_ the damage was done.

Kara’s standing up, not even bothering to brush the hay and dirt from her knees, or the black of her still wet dress. “I have to help,” she murmurs, dragging a forearm across her eyes and starting toward the door—you’re up faster than your body enjoyed, and swiping Jonathan’s sweatshirt from the hook next to the stall, extending it toward her.

“It’s cold outside,” it doesn’t seem to bother her, and as useless as the gesture is, you can’t help making it.

Her fingers are ice cold when they brush yours, but she’s pulling the oversized sweatshirt on, zipping it up the front, and pulling the hood over her head, tucking all her blonde hair away. “Thanks,” a little bluer in the eyes, a little more strength in her posture—she’s not alright, and there’s no reason she should be, but she has something to do now. Something to focus on. “You and Jonathan should head down to the cellar, sounds like a bad one.”

And with a snap—she was gone, the door still closed.

* * *

It was the biggest tornado Smallville had seen in the last fifty years—mile and a half wide, winds up to two-hundred miles an hour. It had hit the center of town head-on. Ripping through farms, and houses, and stores—but just as it had reached the places of highest population, it began to weaken for no discernable reason. Slowing, and getting choppy, the winds lowering and sputtering at the edges until the vapor simply trailed off and the residents of Smallville could see the person floating high above the town—soaked to the bone, tangles of blonde hair. No one—not a single news source—had gotten a picture, but Smallville’s “Angel” became something of urban legend.

Not a single person died.

* * *

You’re fifty-nine when you show her son what she left behind.

Clark’s a handsome boy—no, you suppose he’s a handsome _man_ now—at twenty-four years old, he’s tall, and strong, and you’re sure all the ladies fall for his dimpled smile and blue eyes. He’s come by a few times over the years—mostly with Kara, when she’d take him for a walk to the pond to feed the ducks, or asked Jonathan to teach him to drive because _Cat_ didn’t have the heart for his atrocious ability behind the wheel. Jonathan had needed something to focus on that autumn after his knee surgery—unable to work the fields or tend to the livestock, he’d quizzed the sixteen year old starling about the rules of the road.

“You are waiting in the intersection to complete a left turn. You should?” The boy had been devouring the practice tests just so that he’d get a chance behind the wheel of your husband’s brand new Silverado—Kara had been content helping you wash dishes. She’d offered to help with dinner, but one incident with burning soup had made sure you never left the beautiful alien alone in your kitchen.

It had made your house feel like a home.

Kara hasn’t been by in years.

Clark’s come by himself the last half-dozen times, or so. He’d been tight lipped at first, sullen and quiet about what had happened—but you’d been able to guess. The news of what had been happening in National City had been—well, national. The footage of the monster tearing through buildings, ripping cars in halves—and the hero that had shot into the sky with it, exploding in the atmosphere. After that first visit, he’d wander through the property—fixing fences, and feeding the ducks.

You never asked, because you’d learned to give these vagrant starlings their space. They’d open up eventually, or they’d settle themselves without help.

It wasn’t until he’d brought a little boy with him that you’d cracked—Kara’s son. Carter was well mannered, and curious, and though he was shy, he didn’t mind your presence. You asked him about home—after a while he wouldn’t quiet down. He was telling you about his mother, who ruled the world—or maybe just most of it, he conceded after some goading on Clark’s behalf—and that he was going to school soon, and he liked spaghetti best, and—the list was endless. He chatted and chirped through dinner, and well into the night—until he’d fallen asleep in the cradle of Clark’s arms.

That same little boy stands before you at nine years old, more reserved, more polite, and you see enough of Kara in him that you don’t worry for him—but you see someone else too.  _Cat,_ his other mother. You’ve never met the woman, never spoken to her, but you can feel who she is from how her sons speak of her. Warm, and caring, and understanding—but hot tempered, and drastic, and human. You’ve seen pictures—Carter had loved showing you the pictures he took with him digital camera.

A small blonde that only seemed to smile when she was looking at the camera—looking at Carter—otherwise, her face was set in a carefully neutral curl of lip, to match the business attire she seems to be in every single picture.

Except one.

It is of all three of them. Carter’s seven, maybe eight, and is leaning heavily into the woman’s side—both of them dressed in pajamas, and behind the couch is Clark. Both of his muscular arms looped over their shoulders as he smiled for the camera. Kara had always had worries about _real_ families—like she’d been told something young, and the haunt had simply never gone away.

She’d built herself a beautiful family.

“Martha,” Clark says warmly, as he joins you on the front porch—where you’d read two starlings to sleep with _Peter Pan_ —giving you a quick hug. “I wanted to show Carter what you have below the barn.” _That_ gets a raised eyebrow from you, because Clark had never really shown much interest in his ship, had never been keen on fiddling with it, or seeing what could be done with it. Kara had dismantled it when she was in her early twenties—pulling it apart and putting it back together, before tossing a switch and pressing _something_ to turn it on.

“Really now?”

“Yeah, he’s—he’s closer to it than I am.” Large hands shoved in pockets, and you can see how he’s watching Carter—like Kara used to watch him. Worrying that he was doing everything wrong, that maybe a _real family_ would make this easier for the boy. He’ll learn what Kara learned—family is what you make of it. And theirs—well, you envy the love they’re capable of. “It’s all he has of her, and I want to encourage him. This may have been my ship, but it was Kara’s culture—more than it was ever mine.”

“You were just a babe, Clark.”

“Even when I got older, even when I knew, I wasn’t interested. Deep down, I liked to pretend I wasn’t exactly what I was—it was easy because Kara never forced me to acknowledge it.” And then she’d died, and that night you’d found him below the barn—sobbing, and slamming his fist against the panel of controls. The ship had remained dormant, had sat there silently under the abuse. “I need to find her!” He’d yelled, like the words would make it sputter to life, “She needs me!”

Nothing had happened, and he’d simply sobbed—gulping violently, and shuddering.

Leading them both to the stilted ship under the car cover Jonathan had bought for it, you watch as human fingers caress the whorls at the edge of the ship. Tracing symbols, and lines, and curves—and with a careful press of a finger to four very deliberate spots. The glass popped open. He was saying something in the language you’d heard Kara use a handful of times—usually to curse to herself. Clark just watched—pride, and guilt in his eyes.

“It has a slipstream stasis axillary,” the nine year old says while half hanging in the cockpit, one shoe clad foot stretched out into the air to keep his balance. “It’s what kept you dormant while you travelled here. It probably took a while, in reality.” You don’t really understand what he’s saying, but he seems thrilled.

With a few muttered words, and a rhythm of pressed buttons, the ship roars to life—though, roars would be the wrong word to use. It is quiet, like the softest of breaths. Light pouring from below, and you recognize that awe inspiring shade of blue that is emitted. It is what had made Jonathan stop that night—to search the landing site.

* * *

It was the longest either of your starlings had ever stayed—Carter puttered around with the ship for nearly a week, before Clark was fielding calls from _Cat_ —he maintained that he _wasn’t_ in trouble, but the quiver you saw in fingers was proof enough hto you that he was at least in a little hot water.

“Would it be alright if I came back?” Carter asked, unsure and timid.

You smile, “Absolutely, after all—it’s your mother’s ship, isn’t it?” Clark didn’t want ownership of it, and you knew he felt more comfortable with it being Kara’s—so you accept the lie. “Maybe you should bring your mother next time? She must be able to get vacation at her own media conglomerate.” You suggested, while they gaped—they’d never given _Cat_ a last name, or Carter—but you weren’t an idiot.

Clark inserted himself then, laughing, “She’s not really a fan of farms. Too _rural_.”

* * *

You dream of the hum of a spaceship for the first time in a quarter-century.

* * *

You’re sixty-four when you see her again.

You know she’s back, because Clark had let that slip the last time he was here—actually passing through on business, the Planet sending him to record the stories of people from the most recent tornado. “She’s back,” he’d said, with a splitting grin, eyes brighter than they had been in years, “She’s really back.” It had been months ago, and it was auction season, so you’d convinced yourself that being busy was reason enough to not expect her—to not fold in on yourself and purchase a ticket to National City.

An urge you’ve never had before, because they aren’t your starlings, no matter how you think of them—because they’d made their own places in the world without you. You were their pit stop, their break from reality, where they could settle, and mend, and act like the world wasn’t impossibly heavy on their shoulders. So you don’t expect her to remember you, after all, she has her family around her—to keep her grounded and safe.

So it is a surprise when you walk out the front door and see her curled at the corner of the porch.

She’s wrapped in too many layers for the muggy spring night, and her feet are bare where they curl against the dark wood. Her golden crown is down, so that you can’t see much of her face—just the slightest slip of eyebrow and the curve of her cheek. Her fingers tap against her knee, keeping some unnamed beat in mind. Kara doesn’t make any noise, doesn’t move when you sit down in the chair across from her—just looking at her.

And you sit on something.

A worn and faded copy of a book you haven’t read in years. It’s familiar, because it’s the one you’d given a lost little girl decades ago. Running your fingertips along the cover, you can barely make out the words that are etched into the ancient cover. Little golden leaves curving along the edges, and the slightest figure of a boy—tossed up into the sky, floating above a girl with outstretched hands.

You know this hadn’t been here this afternoon, so when you open the binding, and smoothed fingers over the first page, you watch how dull blue eyes turn to regard you. Careful, and considerate. She doesn’t move other than the slight shift of her head, but she’s paying attention, so, without any prompting, you put your reading glasses on the tip of your nose, and begin.

“All children, except one, grow up—,”

* * *

She’s asleep by the second chapter.

* * *

You’re sixty-nine when worlds collide.

“Mrs. Kent?” She asks—so _young_ , too young. Her eyes are bright blue, and her face too clear of shadow, and that cousin of hers must have finally convinced her to wear his color scheme. Red, and blue, with a golden crest—and that _cape_.

“Yes, Miss Callaghan?” You reply—because she hasn’t called you _Mrs. Kent_ in decades.

She frowns, “Callaghan?”


	39. snap shot 39. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _Very few people in your life really know you; you could count these people on your fingers alone, not even needing all ten digits. The people who won't sell you out for a story, or ask for money, or care about what's written in the gossip column. You've been oddly lucky, that even for missteps have garnered you some of these important people._

* * *

“So,” the voice is tinny, and echoes from where you’ve depressed the speaker phone button, “anything you wanna tell me, Grant?” It is one forty in the morning, and the ache behind your eyes had reached a whole new extreme. You feel it throb every time you blink. This call was supposed to be a very quick one—a few words exchanged, a reminder of all the threats made in the past, and then you would go about your business. Fixing the gross incompetence that seems to filter upward in this company—there’s a sports page that uses the world _awesome_ too many times, which is to say once, and a fashion column that seems to have some misconstrued notion that you wanted _zany_ and _off beat_ options on color palettes.

“You’re new girlfriend looks like she’s your daughter?” You supply sweetly, “it isn’t even the age difference, it’s the jawline—you two have the exact same jawline. And chin.” Kassidy had picked Carter up from school on Friday—he was in the city for the next half week, and had promised to take Carter to the astronomy expo in Los Angeles.  He’d tried to convince Carter that he was _thrilled_ about the idea of going to some science thing about heavenly bodies—but his last minute Wikipedia binge had only gotten him so far with someone as smart as your son.

Carter was under no illusion that his father was actually interested at all about what fantastic new discoveries were made on the other side of the galaxy—let alone what close by planet had frozen hydrogen in their crust. But the fact that his father would still go, and _try_ to care, was what mattered. Father and son were most awkward around each other—Kassidy, a man determined to make everyone like him, and Carter who didn’t know how to start a conversation with anyone other than his primary family. Namely you and Clark—and now, by extension, Kara.

“First of all, kindly fuck off.” He seems far too happy, and it worries you, because whatever makes him happy is sure to ruin your day. “Second, that’s the best you can do? You haven’t attacked my manhood in _months_ , I’m really starting to worry you’ve caught a nasty case of _humanity_. If you don’t watch yourself, Grant, it might be terminal.”

You scoff, “When will you realize you’re the only person who finds you amusing?”

“When will you realize I’m conceited enough for that to be perfectly fine?” You’ve leaned back in your chair, pen forgotten on the desk, heels pressed into your eyes. You’ll take a five minute break, and then you’ll finish the work you have to do, and _go home_. Carter isn’t there, and Clark’s off in some third-world country doing something with some indigenous tribe—but, there’s a blonde angel in your bed. Well, you’d left her there with a note when you’d started reading the atrocities of what would be going to print if you didn’t fix them.

It’d been a struggle to leave—a true fight against every desire and need in your body. Kara was curled, dressed only in the longest of your nightshirts—which on her barely covered the curve of her ass. The intent had been to watch a movie, and then go to sleep—you both felt infinitely better sleeping within arm’s reach of each other. Somehow, Kara had convinced you to watch some mumbled documentary about photosynthesis, or something—well, you know exactly how she’d convinced you. A hand tracing fingers very high on your thigh, under the hem of your own nightshirt, and warm wet lips mouthing against your pulse.

You were disgustingly pliant.

She’d fallen asleep a quarter of the way into the fantastically boring documentary, and you’d played Candy Crush on your mobile—volume off, victory laughs kept to a minimum—and then you’d gotten the message. The final copies of the articles that would be going to print the next day—and your primary editor was out for some ridiculous reason—his daughter born, or something—and the fill in had given the okay to all of them, only _then_ thinking to inform you. You’ve peeled Kara off your body, wrapping her in blankets, and putting the pillow from your side of the bed in her arms.

_Lovely,_

_Apparently I employ someone by the name of Harold, and apparently he deserves to be fired for incompetence that even I cannot put into words. And as you know, I have quite the vocabulary. I shouldn’t be long, and intend to be back in bed before you’re even aware I was away._

_Love Always, C._

You’re brought back to the present, having not realized you were drifting, until Kassidy’s voice gets louder.

“So, back to what I was saying,” he drawls, and you can just imagine him kicking his damned feet up on his desk. The savage, “There I was, minding my own business, eating breakfast, watching DVRed ESPN, and what bombards my sweet innocent eyes? Why, the mother of my son, sticking her tongue down someone’s throat.” _Now_ , he has your attention, because you’d already been on your way to drifting—ignoring Kassidy was second nature at this point.

“What?” You hiss.

“Didn’t know they caught you on the kiss cam? Yeah, I thought that might’ve been the case, you looked pretty busy.” The Canuck’s game last week. You’d been abuzz with the excitement of the game, with the feeling of Kara against your side—with the way her hands wandered, and strayed. You hadn’t been able to mind yourself very well—but no one cares what the person beside them were doing at a hockey game. You’d snagged her once or twice in the back, on your way back to your seats—against a support beam, and in the shadow of the last row.

“If what you’re saying is the case, I’d know,” you stress, making sure to swallow any uncertainty you might have, because you _had_ possessed Kara’s mouth _quite_ a few times during the game. “Kind of my area of expertise.”

“Ah, but Grant, the public doesn’t know that thing you do with your hand when you kiss someone,” so much glee, in such a smug tone, “I do—been on the receiving end, once or twice. You know what I’m talking about—that tap, tap, scratch.” You’d both been wearing hats, and ridiculous sunglasses—you remember because they’d clicked and scrapped against each other every time you’d tilted your chin to capture her mouth.

“Circumstantial at best,” you return, because you are now booting up your desktop, and combing through the by-lines that you usually ignore when they cross your desk. Gossip, and rumors, and speculation. None of them have mention of CatCo’s CEO—you then, reluctantly, turn to the Daily Planet. Nothing. Somehow, you truly had dodged a bullet—carelessly, maybe, but it seemed the only person in the know was the smug bastard who was the father of your youngest son.

“ _You’re_ the one who has to worry about proof; I don’t mind sitting pretty in my party of one, celebrating my complete, and utter, rightness.”

“You’re insufferable,”

“One of the reasons why we didn’t work—I mean, besides the fact that we both loved another.” He says mournfully, like your romance from fourteen years prior had been a staple in his life—a true moment of clarity for his character. But you don’t even bother responding, because you know where he’s going with this. “You—and Kara. Me—and myself.”

You snort—wishing you didn’t laugh.

“But in all seriousness, Grant,” he talks low, quiet enough that you are actually leaning forward to look at the speakerphone on the desk. “You looked happy. I’m glad.” And you _hate_ when he makes it difficult to remember he’s an asshole, because he can sound so damned genuine sometimes. He usually isn’t—but for brief moments, he’s a real human being. He hadn’t noticed _who_ you were kissing, but you knew you’d been smiling like an idiot the whole time. Grinning like a fool in love.

You’re about to respond, but there’s a flutter of fabric, and then a blonde is descending onto the balcony. Kara had put on a small pair of shorts under the gray nightshirt, but it was negligible really. Her hair is still mussed, and her eyes a little cloudy—you wonder if she’d already been moving to find you before she’d woken up completely. That little tug in her chest you _know_ she must feel—it exists too readily inside you. That little squeeze of your heart when she’s too far away—you’d felt that tightness for a decade, before it had abated.

She’s beautiful. Cast bright in the moonlight, golden hair a halo around her crown, and she’s walking right toward you, leaning down to clasp you by the jaw, and tilt your chin up to capture your lips. You hum at the back of your throat, and she smiles against your mouth. Blue, blue eyes cut over to the speaker phone, and an eyebrow raises—and you have to remind yourself that she’d spoken last night—three little words.

Three important words.

“I am happy,” you reply—feeling the truth of it in your chest like a warmth.


	40. snap shot 40. ( 1, 16, 28, 30 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _You wonder if the world would be better without you—if the decisions should be in someone else’s hands. You wonder when you’re wiping the warm blood off your face, and the soot from horrors off your hands. You feel it, even when the sun sinks into you and chases the aches away—you feel them deeper. In the red of your heart, and the black hidden away within._

* * *

You follow the destruction—it isn’t hard. It’s been dormant and you know the ring has finally swallowed her mind, burned away her humanity, and snared her soul. That’s what they do—you’ve never seen one in person, but a blue lantern had loved telling stories when they were planet side. Had loved the singing crystals, and had never been able to deny you the tale. It had started at the hospital, the explosion in the basement—gas main, the staff said—but there was melted glass and cement turned to ash. Even _you_ had been able to feel the residual heat.

And then a little girl had died—the room boiling away, walls peeling, and metal curling, and the fabric of her blankets had caught on fire. She’d been gone before any of that had happened—the coroner had said it would have been instantons, that the sedatives she was already on made sure no pain happened. All of this speculative, because there'd been no body. You’d stood stock still, unable to feel anything for the longest, unable to feel the beat of your heart, or the heat of _whatever_ had done this.

And then you’d felt it—like a plucking songbird, the chirp of power and the whistle of destruction.

Two men crushed to death in a bowling alley in the middle of the afternoon, a car full of college students crushed like it had gone into a compactor. You’re following the scent of burning ozone, of sulfur and metal. It winds through National City, digging into the dark alleys and leaving bodies in its wake—you feel helpless, and angry, and so _very_ sad. Standing on the edge of the tallest building in town, you feel the brush of power, the touch of the ring’s presence at the edges of your mind, a caress. _Want_ , it croons, tasting your anger like it is desperate for it.

“Then come and get me,” you growl to yourself, slipping deep into the building, past security check points and solid walls. No one is here this late at night, even security is far enough above the laboratories that you don’t worry for them. Its clawing at your mind, digging and _digging_ —and in the dark basement of Lorde Technologies, she appears.

She’s a blaze of energy, whirling and cruel, it circuits through the air and bleeds through the very cement of the laboratory. The sleek curves of her body have finished melting away, oily and black, a blazing red crest upon her chest. Marion’s _stunning_. The power spills through her, and around her, and there is no discernable point that she _isn’t_ united with it. Fingers spread wide, to admire the bright red ring upon her finger—it dazzles and glints, and you have to close your eyes to not be blinded. Its radiance bleeds through all of your filters and leaves you bare—you feel it pulsing along your bones, sinking into your muscles, _asking_ to be let in.

“Kara, Kara, Kara,” Marion grins, as she walks up beside you, her oozing black feet sliding across the floor, until her toes wedge themselves into your chest, and you’re sent flying. A trail of red energy wrapping around you and rocketing you into the centrifuge. Glass shatters and rains around you, you’re pawing at the ground, watching with interest the red marks that you’re leaving behind.

Blood—you’re bleeding.

How are you bleeding?

“Always trying to be the hero,” she mocks, “Maybe I don’t want to be saved this time? Did you think of that?” You can hear the sedate footsteps as she strolls toward you—the power buffering hotter, and hotter, the closer she gets.

“This isn’t you, Marion,” you grit out, stumbling to your feet, wavering for a moment, before you find your balance and cement yourself. “It’s the ring talking; it tethered itself to you when you were at your lowest. You can overcome it.”

A wave of heat spills through you, and you don’t move—you _can’t_ —you’re being boiled from every side, and it peels at your skin, molten and horrible.

You scream.

The power ring cards through your filters, pushing them down and away, shucking them from your bones until you’re only raw nerves and burning skin. You can _smell_ how your skin sizzles, roasting under the pressure.

“I don’t _want_ to overcome it!” Your best friend’s wife sneers, grabbing your face in her mortal hands, digging nails in to the apples of your cheeks. “Because when I do, I’ll feel _everything_.” There is a spot on your face that is scalding, melting through your skin, and muscle, until it touches bleaches bone. The power is speaking clearer now—it is digging through your emotions, searching for something specific.

 _Your anger._ It hisses, latching onto that oily black anger that lives at the center of you—like molten tar that roils and simmers, and never extinguishes. It lives below every smile, and every laugh. It is fed by the deaths of _millions_ of your people—you hear them at night, you see them in the dark just beyond the lights of the city. Festering, waiting—demanding retribution because you had _cheated_ your fate.

 _Your anger is delicious_. The ring purrs, forked through your mind, tearing pieces of you to shreds to feel the anger it knows you have—Marion’s laughing, but it’s the power puppeteering her. Wearing her like a flesh mask, pulling her red simmering lips into the caricature of a smile. _I’ll give her back, if I can have you_. The rings lie, the power _lies_. You’d known enough of the Lantern Corps to hear whispers of the red power ring—how it boils everything good inside you.

This power couldn’t have your anger—even if _so much_ of you wanted the numbness it promised.

Clenching a fist and lodging it into Marion’s stomach, the power flickers and rolls, angry like a buzzing nest of hornets—flowing up to catch it’s bearer before she hit the wall. “I’m not going to kill you, Marion,” you say, breathy and weak, blood pouring from between your teeth, over your lip and off your chin. “I love you.” You shudder as a wave of red closes like a fist and hits you into the solid vault door.

“You’re a fool if you think _love_ matters,” she’s laughing, and straight faced—but you see glimpses of Marion in the dark of her eyes. Soft, sad eyes. “I _loved_ my daughter, and she _died_.” A weight hits you, images of your goddaughter, and suddenly you’re pressed roughly into the ground, the air pushed from your struggling lungs.

“I love you,” you cough again, pushing up against the ground, “And Max loves you.” Your shoulders protest when the power tries to force you down again, but you refuse—locking your martian body into place, you can’t get up, but it also can’t force you down. “Even if you kill me, I’ll love you.” There’s a flicker through the red again, a crackle as it goes dark for a moment, allowing you to find your feet.

“When Cat forced us to the beach, and I told you that I was afraid of the ocean—you told them _you_ were scared, so that Max wouldn’t make fun of me,” a blow to the side, making your ribs protest—at least one lodging itself in your lung, you feel the suction through your massacred filters. “You held me the night Cat left for Iraq, because I couldn’t stop crying; I felt like I was falling apart, but you kept me together.” A new pain splintering up your legs, like your bones were being crushed by powerful fingers.

“Max can’t lose you too, Mar. He can’t.” You’re crying, crawling toward her, because your legs refuse to hold your weight. Her thighs are too smooth under your hands, slippery and molten—burning the printless pads of your fingers. “He’s hurting too, but he tried to hold it together for you. He _tried_.” Max had broken—had raged, and swore and sobbed—and you’d been able to do nothing but hold him. Rocking together on the floor of his bathroom, amidst the bloody shards of his broken mirror, and the curved edge of a whiskey bottle

“He didn’t do well enough.” Marion growls, but there’s too much sadness in her dark eyes, too much hurt, and not enough anger. You’re clawing up her body, and even though her fingers are wrapped around your biceps, squeezing until they throbbed and creaked, you had her. Lifting fingers to trace her jaw, and smooth over the apple of her cheek, before burying in her dark hair, pulling her into you. Embracing her felt like hugging a fire—heat chewing through your ruined body, devouring pieces of you—but you refuse to let go.

“I won’t let you be alone with your anger, Marion—I won’t.” Because no one should be alone with that toxic darkness. No one should sip down the hate and fill themselves with it, because all it did was ruin, and sneer, and growl. “If you burn, I burn with you.” The black of her body is slicking away, little burning bolts of tar that flick into the hazy wind of energy. Spilling across the floor like it’s melting off her body, the hands gripping your arms tighten, and her body draws taut like she’s about to throw herself away from you.

But you hold on.

“I love you,” you whisper, gurgling and wet because the blood is clawing its way up your throat, filling the space below your tongue with the taste of copper. The power flickers again, it sizzles, and sputters.

And then Marion sags, the red howls, clawing at your face and hair, pushing into you like it’s trying to control the beat of your heart. It digs into you and you hear how it sneers, _I’ll have you,_ over and over, a phantom in the drum of your ears. _I’ll have you, I’ll have you, I’ll have you_. It’s pulling and tugging at your anger, trying to pull it over your senses, trying to drown you in the tar inside your heart. But you’re full of love—for the shuddering woman in your arms, for the broken man across town, for the boy you’d raised and the girl you love.

You have a dead planet’s worth of anger, but the love you feel for them is enough to balance it—to smother it.

“I got you,” you croak, holding more of her weight than she is herself, which means you collapse to the ground because your legs are cracked and ruined. She’s across your lap, her clothes smoldering, smoke flickering into the air, and you smell burning hair and skin. “I got you.”

Sad, sad dark eyes look at you from your shoulder, her hand pawing helplessly at your collar, slick with blood, weak. “You’ll take care of him?” She shudders, coughing blood onto your cheek, and there’s no way to know what red is yours, and what red is hers.

There’s a clatter, and the ring falls from her finger, rolling harmlessly across the ground—you hear it loud in your ears, knowing it’s just for you. _I’ll wait for you_ , before snapping away, disappearing in a howl of power.

 “Of course, Mar.”

She smiles, tucking against your neck, and you lean back against the wall you’d been thrown through, “I—I _killed_ her, I was so angry, and I couldn’t _stop_. I just wanted to see her, I _needed_ to see her.” She’s sobbing, cracking apart, you feel how she’s going cold, how her chest is seizing, “How could I _kill her_ ; Max will hate me, he _should_.”

Soothing her, you press a bloody kiss to her forehead, “It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you. No one’ll blame you.” But you can feel the life leaking out of her, can feel the cold bleeding into her like a breath of death. You _know_ she doesn’t have any time left, _know_ that the ring swallowed her blood and burned her heart at both ends.

“They will—and I deserve it.” she’s succumbed to this, and you hurt for her. Your tears mixing through the blood on your face, making it watery and pink.

“Then no one will know.” You murmur, “I promise.”

The ring didn’t know that humanity is a sad species—that sorrow lives in them, it embodies them, and anger bleeds away too swiftly for it to have them for long. She’s still trying to protest, still trying to pull this shame and sorrow inside her, but there’s no heart left to shoulder it—no blood to carry it. And when she goes still, you bite your lip to keep your own sorrow inside. She’s heavy, and unwieldy, so you sit there under her weight, looking blankly out at the ruined laboratory.

It isn’t until you see the reflection of your face in the cracked glass that you realize your eyes are boiling—red, and glowing, brighter than usual, and you know it’s the brush of the ring’s power. It awoke something inside you that couldn’t settle because you didn’t feel your powers—they weren’t connected to your mind, like layers that had been peeled away, while still tethered to you.

This woman who was so brave, and strong—who had been weak for one moment, and her whole life was upended. She’d walked away, basked in the rage of how _unfair_ it was that her daughter was sick, that there was nothing she could do—and the ring had snared that. It had dug into that anger, and the relief of not having to hold it alone anymore had made her succumb. Had folded away her reservations, and left her at the mercy of rage. But—but humanity is sad, and humanity is love, and she’d wanted to see her little girl—even with the hate, and sneering raging filtering through her.

She’d wanted to see Caroline.

And the rage hadn’t liked that—the ring had felt how much its host loved this girl, down before the red, so it had flared bright in her room. Burning away everything while Marion banged away inside, unable to stop the animalistic fury spilling forth. And then there was nothing to keep her present, nothing to keep the anger away—and she’d burned her heart out, and boiled her blood.

The door crashes open, and you look up—standing in the doorway is Maxwell Lorde, his blue eyes tired, and hazy, and his hands shaking. You can see the shadows below his eyes, you can see the sadness lining his bones—he didn’t fall to anger, he fell into depression. He holed up in his house, mourning his girl, and missing his wife—you can’t tell him the truth, you can’t break him like that.

So, you’ll let him keep the memory of Marion.

Who would always be his strength, even now—especially now.


	41. snap shot 41. ( 13, 25, 27 )

**SNAP SHOT (JASON).** _It—was a Thursday. You were supposed to be going to your school's talent show, your friend Sarah had invited you—but you’d told her you had prior engagements with your brother. It was a Thursday that your life changed._

* * *

You’re not sure this was the best idea—not sure at all. Your brother had told you there was no other way to get what you want—what you _need_. “Listen, Jason,” he’d said with all the gravitas and authority of a seventeen year old high school dropout, “This is just how it is for people like us—no one cares, until we _make_ them care.” He’d had that kind of passion growing up, but it had always been focused on something academic, or artistic—he’d confided that if he’d been able to have things his way, he’d be restorer—you’d seen the recreation of famous paintings he’d done at school. Prolific duplicates of Rembrandt, and Picasso—and then your mother was diagnosed with a rare heart condition, and everything had fallen apart.

All the things that had seemed abstract, or situational, now suddenly was front and center—the bills were going into collections, and you never picked up the phone anymore because it was always debt collectors. And then your brother had come home with a fist full of crisp twenty dollar bills, and a bag full of medicine, “I got a solution.” He’d said that night, closing his door so that your mother wouldn’t overhear—your sweet, sweet mother who didn’t deserve the cards she was regularly dealt. So you listened to your brother—about people who could help, who _wanted_ to help, and they didn’t ask much in return. Didn’t ask much at all.

Which doesn’t explain how you’ve become an accomplice to kidnapping.

She’s small, and struggles more violently than you thought a woman of that size should be able—then again, you didn’t imagine delicate women like her should know so many _curse_ words. She’s practically foaming at the mouth with obscenities—you can’t see her expression because of the black bag that was put over her head. She’s tied to a chair, forearms through the bars in the back, twisting her arms out at a strange angle. She’s wearing a nice dress, black and slinky—the type you’re used to seeing on the Oscars, or in tabloid magazines. You can’t stop how your gaze lingers on the amount of thigh she’s flashing with her struggles.

You advert your eyes, because—because you’re a thief, and now a kidnapper—

But you’re not _that_.

“Listen,” she pinches out between obviously clenched teeth, going still, “You’re after money, right? There’s half a thousand more intelligent ways to get money.” She jerks at her hands pointedly, and they’re raw, and red—blood soaking into the rope. One ruby droplet sliding down her hand, and dripping to the disgusting warehouse floor.

“I know you’re there,” she continues, “I can hear your shaky breathing. First kidnapping?” She sounds so—so _casual_. So conversational, you feel the wire tightness to your shoulders slackening. She’s just a woman—a reporter who had been snooping around someplace she wasn’t supposed to, with people she wasn’t supposed to. She’s just a girl, damn it.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, and then clamp your mouth shut, because your brother had been _very_ clear—no talking, no _anything_. Just watch. You fiddle with the trigger of your automatic weapon again, methodical—careful—the safety is still on, even though all the other guys had eagerly flipped theirs off. You can—you don’t want to go that far.

“Word of advice?” She offers, shoulders _too_ relaxed, voice _too_ soft.

“From your years of kidnapping experience?” You snipe back, the nerves chewing your ankles, biting up your legs to settle in your stomach where they churn and whirl and sour. You feel like you’re going to be sick—but you’ve already broken your silence, and maybe— _maybe_ —this will be over soon.

“Very funny,” she drawls, leaning back so that she can crane her covered head to look in your direction—not directly at you, but close enough to make you tense. “I’m not worth it. However much money they told you that I’m fetching on the black market these days—it isn’t worth it.” So serious, so careful, and she exhales, like she knows some heavy burden that you aren’t aware of.

“You’re worth a lot of zeros—more than I’ve ever seen,” you begin, “Ever.” You end lamely.

“You seem like a good kid—kidnapping and automatic weapons aside; untie me, and just go home.” Like she’s _pleading_ with you for your own sake; and _that’s_ what makes you angry. She’s one of the people your brother talks about at night—who take, and take, and take, and never look at who they’re taking from. With her thousand dollar dress, and black market price tag, and her _advice_. Clenching your thirteen year old jaw hard, you step closer and she’s still turned toward you—looking at you, but seeing nothing through the black bag.

“No more talking,” you warn, pressing the muzzle of your rifle against her cheek, forcibly turning her head to look forward, and she slumps. More of her weight resting against the bindings on her wrist, and you can hear the softest _fuck_ you’ve ever head as you snap to look at the door—gun raised, safety still on—and your brother plows through.

“The safety’s still on, fuck-face,” he laughs at you, shoving your shoulder, and clicking the little tab on the side of your rifle—and it is _suddenly_ a weapon, not just a heavy weight in your hands. “I got in contact with some rich motherfucker, willing to pay a king’s ransom for this bitch. Idiot’s coming themself.” He’s _gleeful_ , and the stretched happiness looks strange with the paint of his face—wide red lips crawling up his cheeks, a pale, _pale_ foundation that makes the shadows under his eyes dramatic.

“So, they’re gonna give us the money, and we let her go?” You ask hopefully, as more of your brother’s friends pour into the warehouse—they’re anywhere from your age, to their thirties. They call themselves _Mad Waghalters_ _—_ you’re positive none of the other members knew what a _waghalter_ was, otherwise they probably wouldn’t be thrilled to _being_ one. Your brother had been determined to get noticed by the underbelly, to one of the crime syndicates—and this was his move.

Gotham is a cesspool of corruption, and the Batman has cracked down on so much of it—but your brother is confident his methods are going to keep the _Waghalters_ off his radar, until he got on someone else’s’ radar. _The Joker_ , the clown prince himself. It’s what all the make-up was, all the grandiose statements, and downright speeches—trying to impress a mad man who would elevate them.

“Na’w, little brother,” he says, slapping you on the back again, “Dumb fuck’s going to show up, beg us nice and proper, and then we’re going to put so many holes in them the blood’s gonna _pour_ out.” He grins, and there’s a redness in his eyes, a twitch to his lips—and you wonder what happened to the quiet boy who’d liked to paint landscapes, who marveled at brush strokes, and not murder scenes.

When he walks away, you’re left standing at the woman’s side, she’s impossibly tense, and you’re looking at where her hands are clenched tightly into fists. She must be so scared—you never even learned her name—or saw her face. You’re halfway through thinking about how to untie her, and get her out of here when she speaks. Softly, and when you look around, you realize you’re the only one who can hear her.

“Listen to me,” she says, chin against her chest, swallowing thickly, “You need to leave; forget this ever happened. You don’t have much time before—,” _Before what_ , you never learn, because there’s a scream from the other room, and then it’s like a crowd’s worth of sound punches you in the chest. Wind pushes you backward, and your shoulder slam into the wall—there’s a hole in the ceiling, letting in moonlight and rain, and there’s—a figure crouched in the middle of the room. Dark fabric soaked through, face obscured by a hood and mask.

At first you think it’s the Batman—but they’re too _small_ to be Gotham’s Caped Crusader. They stand up, and their body glints and slants with metal and tightly woven fabric. Someone yells, and then there’s the loud report of guns—you see them blister and sing through the air, and—bounce off. The metal armor hardly _dings_ and you have to wonder who the hell this super soldier is.

Because they’re grabbing grown men by the face—a hand that is tiny, and hardly large enough to do the damage it manages. Bodies are lobbed across the room, sailing into concrete walls, and over metal railings. Two men attack from the sides, landing solid punches to kidneys and spine—but the person doesn’t flinch, they swing out an arm, and you hear the audible crack of bones, and the hiccupping wheeze of pain. Knee to the stomach, fist to the shoulder—bodies spine away like they’re barely people at all. Bullets pinging and sounding through the air, but nothing seems to work.

Fifteen _Waghalters_ go down like they’re children playing an adults game, and then they turn to you—two coal burn in the dark of that facemask. Haunting, and demonic. Brighter than bright. And they look at you like you’re confounding—head tilted—but not confounding enough, because when you start to raise your automatic rifle—they disappear in the time it takes you to blink, and then the barrel of your gun is bent upward, and those glowing eyes are only half a foot in front of you.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer, the words falling out of you, “P-please.” A hand rests on your collarbones, small fingers touching the side of your neck, and they’re tapping their fingers— _tap, tap tap, tap, tap tap_ —and you realize it matches the jack rabbit of your heart.

“Stop,” the woman tied to the chair says, “Stop it.” There’s authority, there’s confidence—and you wish you’d untied her, so that she can get away from this monster. But she’s looking in your direction again, head still covered, and she’s utterly relaxed. “He’s just a kid.” Like she’s trying to convince someone of something; a justification. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Jason,” you stammer, as the monster exhales loudly.

“A kid that kidnapped you, and wanted to riddle us with bullets.” The monster sneers, the fabric over their mouth moves—their voice is rasping, and husky, and you want to say it’s male, it _seems_ very male, but there’s a note to it that seems off. That matches the delicate fingers around your neck, than the broad armored shoulders. “Don’t think I didn’t hear that.”

“I know, I know,” your hostage—former hostage?—says with what you can only assume is rolled eyes, “ _He’s_ not the one that wanted to _riddle us with bullets_. His psychotic brother did; speaking of, did you get him good? Because he broke the heel to my favorite shoe.” The monster growls, low in their throat, and turns to look toward the woman—and you’re pleased to see the red glow vanish.

“Really? Your shoe? Do you know how _worried_ I was when Br— _Batman_ told me you were missing?” It seems you are forgotten in lue of allowing this monster, and your hostage to argue, “He almost couldn’t reach me, and what would have happened then?”

The woman scoffs, and it’s really a little ridiculous how she still has the bag on her head, “I would have figured it out.” There’s a shaky confidence, and you wonder if she really would have been able to figure it out.

“That isn’t the point!” The monster says, throwing their hands up in the air, little flecks of blood spinning off into the dark, and they have to pause to slam a foot into the chin of one of the _Waghalters_ who were reaching for their gun. “You keep throwing yourself into these situations—when are you going to forgive me?”

 _That_ isn’t the right thing to say, you muse, because the woman tied to the chair visibly bristles, and you can _feel_ the anger spilling off her.

“Oh, I get it, you think this is about _you_. Like everything in my life revolves around _you_.” She’s struggling again, and this time you _don’t_ want to untie her, because this isn’t fueled by fear, but by anger. “Did you ever stop to think that this has nothing to do with you? That _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , I was doing something on my own, for my own reasons.”

“Testing the waters with the Joker isn’t something you should be doing for _any_ reasons,” the monster says, gritted and low, but—can you really call them a monster, because they’re gesturing wildly, and huffing, their shoulders somehow slumping under armor. “He’s dangerous; too dangerous.” They turn around, and growl under their breath, looking up toward the hole they’d come from, and just when you see them breath in, like they’re calming themselves—there’s a click.

“Don’t move, motherfucker,” your brother says, from where he’s standing behind the tied woman, a handgun pressed against the curve of her head. The woman has gone absolutely still, and the monster has turned slowly— _too_ slowly—to regard the scene happening before them. You see hands clenching, and unclenching, fingers extending wide, and you want to beg your brother not to do this. The glow in back—to burning coals, to pits from hell.

“Take one step, and I’ll blow her pretty fucking face clear the fuck off.” He rips the bag off, and the woman is lost in her own waves of pale blonde hair, but when it settles, she looks at your with the sharpest green eyes you’ll ever see. Everglades and spring valleys. The monster is snared by her eyes too, and goes loose—the woman is mouthing something, and you can see the words after the fourth or fifth time she does it. _Calm down, calm down_.

“I’m giving you the opportunity to walk away,” the monster says, “This _one_ chance, take it.” Seconds tick by, whole long moments—and you see how your brother considers it, see it in the sweat streaked paint on his face, and the brimming redness in his eyes. He hasn’t been right in a while—not really. He’s grinning, wider, and wider, and when you see his finger shift just enough that it’s resting on the trigger, you’re moving to stop hip—you’re closer, you can stop him.

He looks at you, his eyes widening—and there’s something that looks like betrayal there, your gut twists—and he’s throwing his arm out, to point it at you like he has no control of it. His arm spasms, there’s a rush of movement beneath his skin, and he’s squeezing the trigger—you clench your eyes shut, and wait for the pain. For whatever comes after this.

Nothing happens.

Opening your eyes, there’s a hand just before your face—small and delicate, and when those fingers uncurl, the bullet clatters out onto the ground. You stare at it in amazement, like you can’t believe what just happened—and then your brother is hoisted up by the collar, and throws clear through the wooden work wall, and you have to wait a moment to hear his body hit the floor. Obviously he’d gone over the bannister.

The monster’s knelt behind the woman and they’re talking in hushed tones. This creature that has torn through over a dozen men, works so delicately on the ropes—carefully untying them, carefully taking the woman’s chaffed wrists like they’re the most precious thing in the world. Maybe your hearing is coming back, maybe the shock is receding, because you can suddenly hear them.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” the woman says using one of her free hands to smooth over the hood on the monster’s head. “Thank you—for coming.”

“I’ll always come,” the words sound tired, but soft, and felt, “I’ll always worry about you—I worry when you have to meet your mother alone.”

The woman smiles, “Well, that is direr than Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime,”

“Don’t joke about that,” Armored shoulders take the woman’s weight, as they both stand up. “I’m not going to dissuade you, am I?” The not-so-monstrous monster says, hands alighting upon the woman’s hips to keep her steady. The woman doesn’t seem at all concerned about hands that can _stop bullets_.

“This truth needs to be given a voice,” she’s passion—like the kind your brother used to have for Rembrandt and Da Vinci—and she’s smiling up at her savior, smoothing fingers over an armored chest. Tracing around the little dips where bullets had pinged off—but you’re beginning to wonder if the armor is even necessary. “I’m that voice; I have a responsibility to the people. I may not be able to save them from gangs, and terrorists, but I can tell their story.”

They’re walking away, the woman walking awkwardly—one shoe missing its four inch heel—and as they are about to reach the door, it burst open and a wide frame and a wiping cape appear. The Batman. He comes up short when he looks down at the two figures before him, and then the copious bodies littering the floor. The two masked vigilante’s regard each other, and you _swear_ Batman smiles—it is too far for actual proof.

“Seems I’m a little late,” his voice is grit, and echo, and too severe to be real.

“Took your damned time,” the woman grouses, reaching out to shove at the Caped Crusader, but he shifted and she missed him. “You would’ve been scratching my brains off the damned walls.”

“I knew you were in good hands,” he says, amiable, despite the harrowing tone of his voice.

“Well, _good hands_ , is going to get her home. It’s storming something nasty outside, and I’m not looking forward to the flight back.” The shorter vigilante walks past Batman, hitting his shoulder with theirs, and then stopping. “The kid—over there? He’s a good one, was willing to take a bullet for Cat—can you—I don’t know—look after him?”

“I don’t run an orphanage,” the Batman grouses, and it _was_ grousing.

“Orphans love orphans,” the monster says far too cheerfully, and you don’t know where the blistering red eyes and rage went. Because they seem downright— _lovely_ now. “S’why we’re buddies. Plus, he could totally have parents—which you should find out, when you talk to him. His name’s Jason.”

And then they’re gone, and you’re left with the Batman.

He’s looking at you, the cowl of his mask slanting dramatically in the shadows, and the flashes of light from outside. He’s walking across the room, leveraging a kick to the gut of anyone who moved—and you realize all of the _Waghalters_ are alive. Not a single one is dead. When the Caped Crusader is standing in front of you, he’s extending a hand, and you wonder what he’s asking for—until you realize your hands are still clenched tightly around the barrel of the assault rifle—fingers white, and numb.

You hand it over.

“I don’t like guns.” He says, while popping out the magazine, and splintering the barrel and stock, clicking them into the multiple parts that make it up, while thumbing all the bullets out of the magazine. “So, _Jason_ , have a last name? Since I’ve apparently been relegated to crime fighting babysitter by a bleeding heart.”

You swallow, folding your hands into your elbows. “Todd. Jason Todd.”


	42. snap shot 42. ( 6, 22, 31, 36 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** You make a living out of saying who a person is—by putting together a trail to defined characteristics that are unquestionable. Not flukes, or because of circumstance. But when you sit at home, you wonder what these people are like behind closed doors—with the people they love most. Because Cat Grant, CEO of CatCo Worldwide Media, is not who you are when it’s just you and your boys.

* * *

 

> **Inhalation**. By Clark G. Callaghan.

> _It isn’t always the important moments you remember when everything is said and done—those fundamental moments that build and break people. Those are there, they always will be, but sometimes when you peel them away and set them off to the side, you can find something more integral than those big clunky blocks. You can find the blood, and breathe, of a person; the life that comes from those moments—but isn’t defined by them. I was asked to write about something that inspires me, or someone that makes me to be the person I am today—and tomorrow, and every day after._
> 
> _My cousin told me—when the world is loud, and heavy, and impossible to move from my shoulders—to take a breath. To close my eyes, and let it all fall away for just a moment, because it’ll be there when I’m ready, when I’m able to heft it onto my shoulders once again. It isn’t going any place, because the world will always be exactly what the world has always been. Just close my eyes, and breathe—because that’s inspiration. Beyond influence, and impel. Words have so many definitions—and so do people. Inspiration is to breathe deep, and fill your lungs—and sometimes, that’s all you can do._
> 
> _Imagine yourself at fourteen—I can remember how I was. I was angry, and misinformed, and everything was someone else’s fault. I looked at the world like a battle to be fought, because I felt like my problems were unique, and special, and no one could ever feel the way I did. I was an individual, and at that age, that is what being an individual meant. I was the first to ever have that cluster of anger, and sadness, and confusion bundled close to my heart; hugging it from all sides until sense and sensibility were distant thoughts. My words were blades, and I used them liberally on those who I knew would take the blows—those, who even in my teenage angst, I knew would never leave me._
> 
> _Now imagine a girl of twelve, who lost everything she’s ever known, whose world burned, and crumbled, and she was asked the impossible. To care for a child who was hers in no way other than blood—who was shipped to what felt like the other side of the galaxy, with a heart impossibly heavy with sadness. With images of people scorched to the backs of her eyes like ghosts waiting to haunt her; unable to know when she’s crying, because it seems she always is, and that is how she makes it through the day. Standing in a burning house, and saying it is alright—because the flames have never touched her before, they simply took, and took, and took._
> 
> _Imagine this same girl—_

You put the essay down, because you can’t read anymore— _again_ —without the tears gathering in your lashes falling down your cheeks, and you don’t want Clark to think you’re upset, because you _aren’t_. You’re leagues away from upset, but that hurt that will always be a part of you has slotted back into your bones. Settling like an anchor keeping you out at sea, even when you can spot shore just on the horizon. You’ve only read the first two pages, and there’s six more, but you aren’t sure you’ll be able to stomach the emotions put so starkly in black and white.

Clark is yours in this regard—he always has been. His emotions don’t sit clearly on his sleeves to be dissected and dissolved. They sit inside him, beside his alien heart, and his human soul—in all those metaphorical places that have no place in science. No place in the knowledge that love is a chemical reaction, and family is an instinctual behavior. No, he lives in your world of prose, and poetry—where beating organs _ache_ , and souls _rend_ , and everything throbs, and twists, and ruins. He’s a writer after your own heart, this boy of yours, and he’s swiftly, and surely, grabbed it with this piece.

“What do you think?” He asks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hair wet from the shower, and his brother tossed carelessly over his shoulder. You can hear your youngest demanding to be put back on the floor, little fists pounding on his captor’s shoulders, and feet catching Clark on every fourth pin wheel—though he hardly shows any reaction. He’s all earnest blue eyes, and half-cocked smile—more shy than anything, though it was hard to notice beyond those damned dimples of his.

He looks down to the paper in your hands, stapled haphazardly at the corner, smudged with ketchup, and what looks like Clark’s secret sauce—Thousand Island dressing, and mayonnaise mixed together. It is crumpled, and crooked, and there’s a suspicious corner missing from the bottom that you don’t even want to get into. It is so unassuming from every other piece of paper you’re handed on a daily basis—articles, and layouts, and proofs, all slanting across your desk, and through your e-mail, at any given moment of the day.

But this one has _weight_.

You don’t realize you’ve been staring at him unblinking until Carter is _thumped_ onto the ground, and he skitters across the kitchen to launch himself under the table. The six-year-old is giggling, and his chubby face is pressed into the bare skin of your knee where yoga pants have been rucked up because of an itch. Clark is still standing in the arch of the doorway, broad in the shoulders, taller than you by a foot, and his eyes are so—so _breakable_. Especially for a boy who has impenetrable skin.

You should tell him that this isn’t acceptable—that it skirts a line too close to the truth that someone might dig out the facts, that it paints a picture too accurate, and too _true_. But—you can’t take this from him, you can’t tell him that he can’t try to heal the hollow place in his chest that you know exists there. Where his cousin will always exist—his hero, even if she’d never died saving the world.

“What kind of class is this for?” You ask instead.

His eyes shutter, and his chin tips—all you there too, none of Kara’s baleful eyes—while taking a barefooted step closer. “Creative writing.”

“Good,” you supply, setting the papers down and smoothing your fingertips over the title page. “The grammar is too stylized for anything but creative writing.”

“I got my oxford commas from you,” he volleys back.

“Yes, well,” clearing your throat, and lifting a foot to push out the chair opposite you so that he’ll sit down. “You’re welcome. They really do help with clarification.”

“They’re pretentious.”

You scowl at him, reaching down to card fingers through Carter’s hair from where he’s given up clinging to your leg for dear life and is simply picking at the already chipping nail polish on your toes. It’s gross, and you wiggle your toes once or twice to get him to stop—but you don’t really put the effort in. “Keep being a brat and I won’t feed you,” you caution.

“That’s child abuse.”

“You’re an adult, heathen.”

And with that, you’re promptly encircled in a large set of arms, and it’s easy to understand how he dwarfs you from across the room, but when he bundles you close, it’s hard to remember this is the same boy you’d hold on your hip because he had the tendency to wander. “Come on,” he wheedles. He smells like pilfered shampoo—cedar and vanilla—and that distinct scent that belongs to him—and his cousin. Sharp ozone, and lingering petrichor. He’s too old for you to coddle and inhale—it had become _weird_ somewhere in his teenage years—so you coax Carter up from his place on the floor and encircle him in your own arms.

Nose buried in Carter’s hair, dark and curly, you inhale the scent of children’s shampoo and laundry softener. He’s all too happy to join in on the family hug, and Clark unclasps his arms enough for his brother to nestle against your chest, and then be firmly ensconced. This is your family. Sometimes, at night, you imagine everyone in your life is a puzzle piece—you’re something classic and bold, Clark is something modern and sleek, and Carter is bright and happy. The other pieces to each respective puzzle have gone missing—lost to the black of your dreams, but it never seems to matter, because your edges fit perfectly with theirs.

The images may not match, but it doesn’t matter when you close your eyes and just feel Clark’s arms, or Carter’s bony chin. There is a gap—a place that had belonged to another puzzle piece. One that was curved, and velvet—all blues and soft shades of dark—that had slotted right in the center. Now, there’s just an empty place that cannot be filled. Some nights, when you dream, there isn’t a name to the piece splashed liberally with constellations and star dust—even if your mind can only picture comet tails of blue.

“It’s beautiful,” you say quietly, and you’re looking at his rumpled, crumpled mess of a paper. So unassuming under the header— _Inhalation, by Clark G. Callaghan_. It’s such a simple thing, such a silly thing—to reach out a finger to trace that _G_. Kara and Clark had surprised you one evening during his Winter break—you’d been bone tired from work, and even the _idea_ of thoughts had made you shudder. And they’d piled in—Carter asleep in Kara’s arms, Clark bright with a smile, hands filled with paperwork. Kara had plopped down beside you, and Carter had only snuffled and shifted closer to the heat she poured out.

“Don’t you look like a motley crew,” you’d said wryly, and Clark just grinned wider, handing you a packet of papers—you were expecting one of his college essays, or something from his internship at the Daily Planet. But it was from the National City District Court—a name change petition. _I, Clark Gardner Callaghan, petition to assume the name of, Clark Grant Callaghan, with no intent to provide false witness, or avoid prosecution_. There were a litany of stamps, and signatures—but the sentiment was pretty clear. The first date was upwards of three months ago, toward the beginning of the autumn semester.

“I couldn’t think of something to get you for Christmas,” he said, nervous, and you’d gawked at the paper. “So—well,” and you hadn’t let him finish. Catching him in an awkward hug over his shoulders, and he’d obligingly stooped down so that your feet could stay on the ground. You’d cried—it had been ugly crying too—and he’d cried as well. Kara had taken pictures, and you’d both dragged wrists against your cheeks like it had never happened.

He got that from you too.

“Really?” He asks, pulling you from the memory, though your finger still lingers on that unassuming _G_.

“Really, really,” you say, and it’s childish, but Carter chirps happily, pushing up so that his bony feet balance on your thighs—it _hurts_ —and his face is, _presumably_ , smashed against Clark’s where it rests on your head.

“ _Really_ , _really_ ,” he repeats firmly, balancing his weight in such a way that a nerve pinches, and your left leg goes numb.

“You can’t even read,” Clark replies, lifting Carter off you—he must see the twinge at your brow.

“Can _too_ ,” your youngest declares, thrashing, and wiggling, and bucking until he’s returned to the ground. He dashes into the hallway, a little faster than you’d usually allow, and with the great emphasis of a six year old, he snaps the morning’s paper open and reads the headlines with utter severity. Punctuating the words with much emotion, “Right ‘ere, it says;  _Clark_. _Is. Stupid._ ”

And he’s off—giggling, and skittering around corners before you can even form the reprimand on your tongue. Clark’s already in hot pursuit, and you’re left in the kitchen alone—wondering when your life became a three ring circus. You imagine it was at the age of fifteen when you’d unknowingly adopted two wayward aliens.

Because isn’t that just how everyone’s story goes?


	43. snap shot 43. ( 13, 30, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (LOIS).** _Sometimes it takes a little distance to see the forest for the trees; it's hard when you're squinting, trying to make out all the minute little details and fine edges. You think you've gotten better over the years, but sometimes that inability to find space hits you right between the eyes._

* * *

The world crawls to a standstill once a year—on October Fifteenth.

Not the actual world, that would be a horrible catastrophe—no, what stops for one night, is the world of _legitimate_ journalism. Blood hounds always out for the freshest scent of truth, and some simply trying to find the rust colored promises of that white whale from their bright, and eager, rookie days. Every reporter has a white whale—that story that got away, despite doing everything right. That soul inspiring piece that wove like lacquer through your bones, and flitted as warmth through your veins—you don’t like to think of yours anymore, because it plucks at something youthful and malcontent in your heart.

And really, these days, you’re rather content.

“Would you stop moving?” You grit out, using all your strength to coax your companion into standing still for _one_ fucking minute. Clark frowns at you, shifting just enough to show that you couldn’t _make_ him stay—which is firmly, and swiftly, rectified with a glare. He’s all but mangled his tie, and you’re not even sure you’ll be able to salvage the sailor’s knot he’s encircled his collar in. “How?” You sigh, “How did you even manage this?”

“It’s kind of hard to tie a tie while flying,” he grouses, ducking his eyes and batting ridiculously long lashes at you. You’re a goddamned sucker, because your heart flutters a little, and you find yourself smiling even if you’re still _annoyed_. Thumping him on the chest, you work at the knot carefully, not allowing his large hands anywhere near it, because _that’s_ why it’s so cinched to begin with.

“Did it occur to you to wait until you were—I don’t know— _not flying_?” You offer, and suck your tooth in concentration—a disgusting habit, really, but you were an army brat—and you nearly cheer when the first loop starts to loosen.

“It might’ve,” he concedes, sheepishly, “But you told me if I was late we weren’t gonna—you know.” It _astounds_ you that this man-boy saves Metropolis on a fairly regular basis—you’ve seen him wrestle alien armadillos, and fire lasers out of his eyes. Hell, he’d held a bridge on his back for _four hours_ until there were enough cranes in place to keep it in place. And yet, when all is said and done, he balks over saying _have sex_.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Teasing him is too easy, and you can see in his bright, bright blue eyes that you have him for half a second before he frowns.

You’ve finally unknotted his tie, and from where you’re standing in the upper levels of the Low Library you can see the tabloids and internet blogs snapping photographs of the more well-known journalists. Anderson Cooper, and Barbara Walters—the ones who had made the seamless transition to television. They stopped and struck poses at the lines of paparazzi—the journalists that had no appreciation for the chaos ducked their heads and headed quickly inside.

Remember— _legitimate_ journalism.

You were waiting for the preening blonde megalomaniac that was set to accept _two_ Pulitzers this year. You’d bit your tongue when Catco Worldwide Media was announced as the winner for the Breaking News Reporting Pulitzer—and Cat herself claiming possession of _yet another_ Editorial Writing one. You’d grit your teeth, and tell yourself you’d been too busy this year—Perry had developed something of a wet cough, and had taken too much personal time, leaving you as _de facto_ editor of the Daily Planet.

It had been a big transition.

“She said she was running late,” Clark says, knowing immediately who you’re looking for.

“She didn’t say it like that,” you _know_ there was a dig in there somewhere. Cat had been the bane of your existence for far too long now—but finding out she basically _raised_ your boyfriend, was really a dowsing of cold water. Especially when that revelation came after a drunken confrontation in the bathroom of a posh restaurant—you’d woken up the next morning to the sweetest message from Clark, and the _rudest_ one from Cat. You don’t understand how such a sweet, sweet boy had anything to do with that narcissistic maniac.

He grins, taking over on his tie, and pulling it from his neck, “She didn’t.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Nope,” he pops, while rolling the ruined tie up and shoving it in his pocket—which you promptly pull out and toss in the trash. If he’s going to go for the rogue with an open collar, he can’t have miscellaneous bulges in his pocket. It simply wouldn’t do.

Clark extends an arm, and you loop yours through it, feeling properly escorted as he guides you through the people trailing from other nooks in the library to the large banquet hall that you’re positive isn’t used most other days of the year. You do the appropriate amount of smoozing— _oh, the article you wrote on the_ —Clark whispers the subject of people’s articles before they get too close, and you’re _too_ grateful for him. That dimpled smile and blue, blue eyes charms even the most hostile of hearts.

When you come across Anderson Cooper, you exchange the customary cheek kisses, and pull him into a hug, “Anderson, I wasn’t sure if you were going to be able to make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assures, straightening his obviously tailor made suit. Extending a hand to Clark, you turn to watch the front door was they chit-chat—you still haven’t been able to get eyes on Cat, and everyone’s already starting to get seated.

“—something about traffic on the Queens Borough.” You rejoin the conversation, apparently, in the middle of the traffic report, because both men are hovering over Anderson’s iPhone with furrowed brows, looking at the News 12 broadcast of traffic in the city. Shaking your head, you sigh and smack Clark in the arm, head tipping toward the arched doors that will lead to the makeshift dining hall for the ceremony.

Columbia put a little more dazzle into the ceremony this year—maybe it’s because of the brand names that they’re getting more and more recognition—but there’s actual wait staff, and the reminder to _dress accordingly_ sent out a few weeks before the ceremony was new. You usually wore a pretty decent dress, but this year you’d gone _shopping_ for the event. Slate gray fabric, clingy yet fairly conservative, but you’d gone with your higher heels with the intent of being as close to Clark’s six foot three as you could manage.

Your table is toward the back of the room, a prestigious spot that had been afforded to the New York Times last year—and every year prior—but had been summarily stripped when the editor of the Times had lost at the annual poker game in Vegas. You’re _pretty_ sure your victory there had sealed the deal with Perry about you acting in his stead. You’d come back from Vegas, hung over, sun burnt, and with a shiny new place at the Pulitzers—and a pair of Dean Baquet’s underwear you don’t remember winning. Watching one grown man cackle over another grown man’s underwear was disconcerting—you’re even pretty positive he snap chatted it to someone.

You work for actual children.

The table is full of your editorial board, and a few exemplary journalists that you hope to encourage with this experience—Clark loves the Pulitzers, even if he doesn’t have any himself yet. But, then again, you suppose being a superhero in your free time would make it difficult to really settle down with a story. He’d been _nominated_ three times, and you’d been so astoundingly proud, and it really got your goat how damned _humble_ he was—until you’d caught the late night conversation he’d been having with the woman who raised him. “I’m letting you grow comfortable in your old age—yes, fourteen years makes _all_ the difference—hold on,” a photo was taken, “—oh yeah, it’s on. That’s the shelf I’m going to put them on.” And the next morning, there had been three Pulitzers that distinctly had _Cat Grant_ written on the plaque—you washed your hands of _that_ situation.

They had been promptly returned within the week.

By the tail end of the ceremony, you’re on your third Long Island iced tea, and you _finally_ find the Catco table—mainly because Jimmy Olsen is trying to low-key wave from two tables over, and one back. You don’t know _how_ you missed them. Maybe it’s because Cat’s nearly hidden by the taller blonde woman at her side—the one she’s…leaning into. Cat’s wearing something obviously expensive, gold and cream and to _die for_. Not enough sleeve for an event taking place at night in October, the plunge in the backline making _you_ cold just looking at it, but it’s the smile that startles you.

Cat Grant does not smile like that.

You’ve even witnessed how she smiles at Clark a few times since that embarrassing first time. Genuine, and warm, and a little mischievous—like she’s plotting ways to embarrassing him, which she does admirably. It’s when she smiles like that that you see the similarities between them; the mischief, the brightness, and that damned golden heart—that you pretend you don’t recognize in Cat, because she’s a shallow harpy of a woman with no redeemable qualities.

But she’s leaning into the woman like she’s pulled by gravity, like it can’t be helped; something celestial, and so much larger than them. You’re bereft of a reason _not_ to creep on them, because they’re going into sports categories, and you don’t know how to touchdown a hockey puck, or homerun a football. The taller blonde hasn’t spoken at all, but Cat is _rife_ with commentary, which only seems to make her companion dissolve into silent giggles. They’re positively _teenage_ in how disgusting they are, and it makes something in your chest tighten, because you hadn’t realized that was why Cat Grant always seemed a little sad in recent years.

She was missing this kind of love.

Her companion is hugged by expensive dark fabric, a designer suit meant to accentuate her slender frame, and the impressive breadth of her shoulders. She’s young—looking to be in her early, or mid, twenties—and you wonder when the bane of your existence decided to start robbing the cradle. Loose golden ringlets, and eyes that are light—though you can’t decide their color from here. She’s _finally_ turning to look in your direction so you can see her face full on—

“There a reason you’re rubbernecking?” Clark asks, making you turn abruptly to him, missing the blonde’s face.

“Cat has a date,” you whisper, like he could have possibly missed it.

He glances over your head, brightening. “She does.” Apparently, he’d missed them too, but then again, he knew something about sports. _Obsessed_ , was a word for it. If you have to sit through one more conversation about the Seahawks, you were going to walk into traffic and hope for the worst.

“Aren’t you—I don’t know— _curious_?” Because Clark had always ruminated on how perfect his cousin was with Cat, the rare times that he spoke of him. It was wistful, and full of the kind of adoration people have for childhood heroes who never lost the illusion of being able to hang the stars in the sky each night.

“Not really,” he surmises, leaning in so that you don’t have to talk too loudly, “Though, I didn’t think public dates were happening already.”

“How do you—are you alright with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You know,” now you’re sounding like Clark— _you know_ , is such a teenage boy way of talking about something, “Because of your cousin.”

And he gets that look on his face you hate—because it’s so fucking genuine, and his eyes widen, and his mouth turns into a little _o_ of surprise. It’s the face he makes when he realizes he’s forgotten to tell you something important. It happens infrequently, but enough that it’s recognizable—it’s his _honey, I forgot to tell you the laundry was contagious_ , or his, _did I not mention the intergalactic poohbah of the chubby hubby asteroid belt was stopping by for drinks out of infant skulls_?

“Oh, shit,” and there’s the audible moment of realization, “So, don’t get mad,” you’re already forgiving him, because he’s so _fucking_ adorable when he’s fumbling like a good natured asshole—though you keep your annoyed frown up with admirable effort. “That _is_ my cousin.” And then there’s the required amount of silence following his declaration—but really, this one might take the cake. You look back at the couple in question—grinning fools in love,  hands interlaced under the table on Cat’s knee—and nope, you are not watching wandering fingers, and that thousand dollar skirt hiking up any higher.

Turning abruptly to face Clark, his cheeks are red, and you know he saw them being handsy too.

“Your cousin,” you confirm, allowing him to nod, “The one you said died around ten years ago?” Another nod. “Who you always led me to believe was male?” A third, much more hesitant, nod. “This is the aforementioned cousin; about to get to third base at an award ceremony?” A wince, and nod. Leading you to properly punch him in the arm, appreciating his wince of effect, if not pain.

“Cat asked me to keep it to myself!” He insists, and he almost has you with those baby blues, but you’re staying firm. “She was adjusting. I didn’t want to intrude like; _hey, cous, how’re you after being sucked into the armpit of the universe for a decade? By the way, this is Lois, the love of my life_. I was going to tell you, I swear.” He’s talking too quickly for you to really catch all of the words, they kind of buzz and flit together, but you _do_ catch them, and when you finish parsing them out, you freeze.

Love of his life.

He must realize around the same time, because his eyes go wide—hilariously so—and he leans back, and then forward—rocking, until he settles and firms his lips. An inaudible _you heard me_ setting firm in his jawline and his eyes.

Damn him, and his beautiful impossible body, and genuine golden heart, and adorable rambling idiocy—you’re so fucking in love with Clark Callaghan, you don’t even know what to do with yourself. It’s like a silver lining of each, and every one of your days—good and bad. Something that is unequivocal, and solid, and—so damned real.

“I believe you,” you smile. Because _love of my life_ , is still plinking around in your mind.

Clark puts his hand over yours, “I _was_ going to tell you.”

“At least this slip up didn’t involve dying your skin red,” _that_ had been a difficult forty-eight hours.

“It was blood orange,” he insists.

So you return, “It was fucking red, Clark.”

He’s smiling, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, and there’s an intermission for dinner—you didn’t realize the waiters were coming around with plates until food was being placed on the table. Clark’s looking at the Catco table, and it has emptied at some point in the last few minutes, and the blonde couple is sitting alone, Cat talking quietly—rubbing her thumb over Clark’s cousin’s knuckles. Fuck, he got his charm from Cat fucking Grant.

“Come on,” Clark says suddenly, standing up and pulling you with him. You want to retract your statements, because you are _not_ ready for introductions—but, you’ve set this ball in motion, and now they’re both looking at you. Clark’s cousin is beautiful—and oddly familiar—a strong jaw, and brilliant eyes which you can see are definitely genetic. There’s a weight to her, that you recognize from some of the people you’ve interviewed over the years—guerrilla fighters, protesters, and tribal councils. Something consuming, and intangible.

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning down to kiss his cousin’s cheek, and—after making sure no one’s looking—pressing one to Cat’s cheek too. “I’d say congratulations, but you’ve been pretty intolerable.” Cat just looks _pleased_ , basking in her self-proclaimed glory, and you _really_ want to comment.

“Intolerable is a strong word,” Cat parses, leaning back and slinging her arm across the back of Clark’s cousin’s chair. Who is quietly watching, hand still under the running thumb of the _intolerable_ media magnate, considering you gently.

Clark is fiddling with his phone, and you know he’s debating on pulling up the conversation they’d been having throughout the week—it was positively juvenile, and had more emojis than words. There were also copious amounts of snap chats that had involved rude hand gestures and cleverly chosen songs.

“We’ve never been introduced,” you hedge, extending a hand, _determined_ to make a good impression on Clark’s cousin. “I’m Lois Lane.” And you can gather from the widening of eyes, and the slow crawl of a grin that she wasn’t aware of just how convoluted this knot has become. So you continue, “yes, _that_ Lois Lane. Don’t believe anything Cat has to say, and only believe about half of what Clark says.”

People believe being a journalist is just about the sound bites—the interviews, and the slipped confessions—but you’ve gotten more from body language than you have any verbal conversation. She’s absolutely still—an eerie kind of stillness of windless nights—and she’s made no attempt to grasp your hand; one still sitting forgotten in her lap, the other trapped below Cat’s tightening fingers. Just as you’re about to drop your hand awkwardly, and call this the utter failure that it is—there’s a scalding hot hand loosely clasping around yours.

“Kara,” she offers, voice a little rough, and _a lot_ quiet. You can’t help noticing how Cat’s smile widens, and her eyes get all soft and distant, and Clark’s positively beaming—and you don’t understand what’s so phenomenal. The hand shake is more of a too-gentle hold, and when she retracts, you can still feel the heat of her skin against your palm.

“Nice to meet you, Kara,” and it is, because you know almost nothing about her. This person who was such an important figure in Clark’s life, that he did his damnedest to not talk about, and you’d always respected that. She just smiles, eyes squinting a little behind thick lenses, and you like her already. It’s one of those gut feelings that _very_ rarely steer you wrong. Kara’s looking at Clark intently, eyebrow raised, making your boyfriend squirm, and Cat just looks weary, like she’s ready to step in at any moment. You’re about to make some excuse to get back to the Planet’s table when Cat interrupts.

“Dinner, next weekend.” She asks—maybe closer to a demand—while finally turning her attention fully to you, green eyes intense. Like she’s waiting for _you_ to mess this up.

“Perfect,” you return, a little too quickly, a little too confrontationally.

It’s the cousins turn to look weary.

“Good,” Cat snaps.

Chin tipping, “Good.”

And that, apparently, is that.

The wait staff are doing their best to walk around you, too professional to tell you to get the fuck out of the way, so you’re smiling, biding Kara goodbye, and offering Cat the most subtle of rude hand gestures—when it strikes you. Where you recognize this blonde from; you’d put it down to looking for the similarities to Clark in her face, but as she ducks forward, eyes going into shadow—you recognize her.

From two decades ago in a shoddy hospital room in Kuwait. The Planet had pulled you off assignment in Afghanistan to meet up with the shell shocked crew doing war correspondence—apparently they’d been compromised and besieged. Kristopher Arnold had spun the tale of a mysterious vigilante that had swooped in and decimated the soldiers threatening their lives—before kidnapping Cat, and flying away. You’d put it down to war madness, but it was true that Cat was miles, and miles, away in a hospital.

It had taken you two days to track her down, and when you had, she was recovering from surgery on her abdomen—from some kind of metal shrapnel—and beside her in a rather uncomfortable looking chair, was a slumped and sleeping figure. Hood up, mask loosely pulled over a slender nose—the mysterious vigilante, apparently. She’d woken up for only a moment—a _moment_ —locking blistering blue eyes with yours, before she vanished in the time it took you to blink. Cat hadn’t been forth coming when she woke up hours later, and you’d somehow convinced yourself that Kristopher’s tall tales were messing with your jet lagged mind.

But no—here she is, in a designer suit, at Cat Grant’s side again.

Clark’s guiding you back into your seat, but you’re miles away in your mind—thinking of white whales, and hallucinations. Of blondes, and battle zones.

Next weekend was going to be _very_ interesting.


	44. snap shot 44. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CARTER).** Sometimes when you see your classmates with their perfectly nuclear families, you yearn for that—only for a moment, only for the time it takes your brother to swoop you into a hug, or for your mother to kiss your forehead. Only until you realize you wouldn’t give them up for all the statistically perfect families in the world—no, the galaxy.

* * *

Your mother pretends she doesn’t know, which is pretty impressive considering she has the car service always waiting in the underground parking garage every Tuesday and Thursday to take you across town. Kara’s apartment looks lived in for the first time in a decade—your sweatshirt on the hook near the door, you mother’s discarded shoes in the hallway, and Clark’s extra cape forgotten on the back of the guest bathroom door. There’s food in the fridge—none of it healthy because this apartment has become something of an escape from reality. Instead of granola, you eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch, even your mother doesn’t eat her usual salad or salmon—she eats cheeseburgers or bad Chinese food.

Every Tuesday and Thursday you sit at the dining room table, hoping Kara will make her way down the hall and join you—she never does, but some nights you can hear the groan of the bedroom door, knowing she’s sitting against it, listening to you. You notice how her finger taps against her thigh, keeping perfectly in time with your heart, keeping her present—and then her finger will slow, and stop, and you know she’s stepped away mentally for a little while. To wherever it is she goes.

This Thursday, you’re running a little late, because your school had a special guest lecturer you’d been waiting all year for—Chris Hadfield, from the International Space Station. You have a picture signed tucked away inside your backpack, and you leave it in the car because you’re worried about creasing it. You’re texting your mother while punching in the code for the apartment, _here safe_ , followed by half a dozen emojis. Your mother pretends she hates them—that they’re _childish_ —but you’ve seen her conversations with Clark and _know_ that there isn’t a grammatically sound sentence in the entire conversation.

This evening Kara’s on the balcony attached to what had been her bedroom, even though the bed’s been stripped of linens for almost as long as you’ve been alive. She isn’t sitting on the expensive furniture, but tucked into the corner against the side of the building. Legs extended, feet bare, and when you sit down beside her, she doesn’t acknowledge you—that’s fine. You put the tablet with your textbooks on your lap, and start reading about the Reconstruction Act of 1867—you’re _alright_ with history, but it’s a lot of reading about things that seem slanted. Like how water bends light—you wonder how things had really happened, if history hadn’t been written by the victor.

You’ve been doing nothing but staring at the chapter header when Kara leans into you, so you turn toward her, shifting the tablet just enough that she’d be able to see the screen if she chose to—which she won’t—and her cheek rests on the top of your head. She doesn’t move other than that, but that’s alright—she’s impossibly warm against your side, which is good because the air is still a little chilly. Spring hasn’t gone into full swing yet, and you’d forgotten your jacket in the car—like your mother said you would, but she isn’t here, and Kara’s warm.

You start reading.

“The end of the Civil War brought profound changes—,” you keep reading, even when her head gets a little heavier about a quarter of the way through, and she starts snoring toward the middle of the chapter. Her hand has been resting on yours since she fell asleep, fingers curled loosely around yours, tightening ever so slightly every time you shift even a little—like she’s always checking that you’re still there.

And you are—there, that is—for about another hour, until your ears go numb from the breeze, and your legs have fallen asleep from sitting on the ground for so long. Sliding out from underneath her inordinately heavy head is hard, and takes about ten minutes longer than you thought it would—but when you’re free she remains leaning precariously, but gravity seems to have no hold on her, so she doesn’t slump. Her fingers are still around yours, and you have to peel them off one by one—hazy blue eyes open, blinking owlishly, and her pupils are so wide, you _know_ she can’t see you.

That she isn’t fully here.

“I’m heading inside, _ieiu_. _Ukiem rrip._ ” Whispering, because you don’t want her to align herself with you right now—pull herself back from whatever peaceful place she’s found that has allowed her to fall asleep. Still, she blinks, leaning toward you sluggishly. So you press a kiss to her cheek, firm enough that she’ll be able to feel it, and fleeting enough that she won’t rouse too much. She—smiles, that’s what you’ve come to equate that twitch of her lips to—and then settles back, and closes her eyes.

Looking tired, even though she’s already asleep.

The apartment is unsettling in the dark, and there’s no discernable reason that should be true—maybe it’s the quiet. You can hear the city outside and a few hundred feet down, the wind buffering against the side of the building—making triple ply storm window shiver. The balcony to the living room is open, and the room is kind of chilly, but you’ve grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch to wrap around yourself. Sitting at the kitchen table, your binder open, your phone _plinks_ , and you read the text message from your mother. Saying she was on her way home, and that she’d stop by the apartment to pick you up.

There’s a snap of fabric, like wind being pulled through a sheet, and when you look up—there’s a woman in front of the couch. She’s wearing a black flight suit, a crimson patch on her chest—it looks like it could be in the same vein as Clark’s family crest. Her hair is dark, but even in the shadows of the apartment, the white streak is stark against the curve of her cheek. You know who she is by the description your mother gave—this is Kara’s aunt. She’d been who brought Kara back, or—brought your mother _to_ Kara.

She’s looking at you with a solid stare, and you can’t hold it for more than a second before you duck your gaze and focus on your binder. Focus on calming the patter of your heart, because you know it is what will pull Kara back. She’s always listening for your heartbeat. You have _no_ reason to fear this woman, but there’s something inside you that does. Not because she could lift a car, or melt metal with her eyes—but because she’s _something_ to you, and you don’t know what.

Uncertainty unnerves you.

“You are Kara’s human’s progeny,” she says, calm and dry.

“That's a lot of possessives in one sentence,” you reply, swallowing your nerves, not moving from where you’re sitting at the table. “I’m Carter.”

“Carter,” she repeats like the name doesn’t sit properly in her mouth—her accent is strange, almost like she’s talking without opening her mouth. Somehow soft, and bold at the same time. The clench of her jaw, and the stiffness of her posture is positively militaristic, but her face is all consideration. “A strong name,” she finally decides.

“I was named after my grandfather,”

Another nod, “Family is important, smaller Grant.”

“Smaller?”

“As it stands, your mother seems to be small as well.”

Then there’s silence. It’s stifling and awkward at first, but eventually Kara’s aunt stops hovering, and sits delicately on the edge of the couch. Her arms still folded rigidly in her lap, like she’s afraid to touch anything; fingers laced tightly together until even her martian knuckles are turning white with stress.

“Don’t say that to her face,” you advise, picking at the nonsense buttons at the bottom of the remote—the buttons that you have no idea what they do. “My dad did, and she had all six of his cars towed across the country.”

“I do not have any cars,” flat, curious.

“She’d think of something.”

She doesn’t seem concerned, but then again you can’t imagine why she would be. She’s—an alien, not like your brother, but an _actual_ alien. Sitting beside Clark a few days ago, playing Mario Kart, you’d quietly told him how you felt—eyes on the screen, it is always easier to talk that way. Clark had kept racing, turning the wheel this way and that, and he’d shrugged heavily when flying into the winner’s circle in 10 th place. “I’m from National City,” he’d said, fiddling with the buttons, “It was easier to believe I was from Neverland, than the truth that I was an alien.”

And that was that. You’d both grit your teeth and concentrated on rainbow road, and fawned over your mother when she walked in with takeout food. You, your mother, and your west coast raised—if not born—alien brother.

“Do you have a spaceship?” You ask.

You don’t even know her name, but you’re too afraid to ask for it now—is the social expectation the same with an alien? Is it rude to ask now? Will she be offended? She hadn’t asked your name—you’d given it to her. “A temporal maximum security prison,” she offers, “I imagine it’s too large to be towed.”

“How large?”

“Seven thousand and twelve tons.”

“That’s—kind of big.”

“Indeed.”

Silence.

And more silence.

So you break it, “I’m Kara’s too.” Because she needs to know that too, needs to understand who Kara is to you—even if it’s hard to call her _ieiu_ , or mama, anywhere other than your mind. She’s no longer the _idea_ of a person, the story of some time when you were small, or before you were born. She’s here, and real, and still so far away—you love her, _so much_ , but you call her Kara. You mother looks like she wishes to ask you sometimes, but never does—trusting you to broach the subject when it gets too heavy for you. But this woman—Kara’s aunt—she needs to know who her niece is to you.

Confused, she asks, “her what?”

“Progeny. I’m her progeny.”

“Explain.”

Instead of explaining, you pull out the picture that you mother had unearthed once Kara returned—you’d walked into her bedroom, and had found the boxes torn through. There were albums all over the place, and there seemed to be no real order—Clark as a baby, your mom and Kara pressed together at the cheek in college, and you—your first steps, and your first ice cream, and your first trip to the zoo. And in each of them is Kara. Sometimes it’s obvious the picture was intended to be taken—family trips, and celebrations—but some of them are at dawn, with cheerios tossed across the table, and crust still at the edges of sleepy eyes.

Turning the picture around, you slide it toward the edge, and keep your eyes on the table, even when you hear the couch groan and the deliberate sound of her steps. You’re looking at the picture—unable to help tracing the edge with your finger. In it you’re maybe two and held up on Kara’s shoulders, your fingers dug through her blonde hair—she’s laughing, mimicking you by pressing her face and hands comically against the glass. Your mother’s at her side, in the middle of shaking her head, palm against her face—you’re pretty familiar with that pose. There’s a large striped cat on the other side of the glass—a tiger—and you know they’re your favorite animal. They always have been.

Maybe they were hers too.

“I was three when she went away, but I watched it—I can remember that. The monster was crashing through buildings, and then— _ieiu_ grabbed it, and they went up. And up, until they were gone.” Your father doesn’t know _that’s_ why you have nightmares of that moment, even years later. He thinks it’s the Catco building in the middle off all the rubble, the knowledge of who exactly was in that building—not who exactly you lost that day.

 _Mama went up_.

Kara’s aunt is holding the picture, tracing it like you had—except she’s tracing the edge of Kara’s face. Eyes that are bleu, or gray, or something in the middle lighten and she smiles. She looks human when she smiles—the air of heavy weight recedes for just a moment.

“She still smiles like she did as a girl.” She’s reverent, awe and joy flickering like dying lights in every corner of her face. She’s pretty. When the sadness, and the anger peel away, she’s very pretty. And you can see Kara in her chin, and in her brow—like the soft parts of Kara are shared with this woman, while the edges and lines belong with Clark.

Blinking, like she’s trying to chase away tears, she inhales and speaks to distract herself, “You speak Kryptonese.”

This you can answer.

“ _Kryptahniuo non I chahvehd ju.o_ , _non ieiu ashum ahahp_.” you say, more slowly and carefully than you would Clark, because this woman _speaks_ Kara’s language. And this woman smiles, wide and pleased, like you’ve done something wonderful. You _know_ you used the wrong _my_ , but you couldn’t remember the masculine manner of saying it—so you went gender neutral—and you’re conscious of your accent, and that they don’t hiss and slope like they should. Lacking the extra chambers in your lungs is to blame for that.

You skim and translate two, or three, more times before she answers— _kryptonese was my first language, my mother taught me._

“ _Khuhtiv_ , _zha non_ ” she corrects, gently, like your mother does, and she’s placing the picture on the table, and turns in the direction that you know Kara is. You wonder if she’s looking through the walls, seeking out her niece. “I am Astra, smaller Grant. It pleases me to meet Kara’s— _aonah_.”

 _Aonah_ —son.

Extending her hand, a _very_ human gesture, and you wonder where she picked it up—you don’t imagine many people are offering to shake her hand. You take it. Her grip is loose, and hardly anything at all, but you shake firmly. How your mother taught you when she’d bring you to work and you’d pretend to be Carter Grant, CEO of Carterco Worldwide Media—trademark pending. “Are you planning on destroying our planet?” You ask bluntly, and it isn’t until after the words escape that you wince—you’d forgotten _tact_ , and to be less _blunt_.

She only laughs, a rumbling chuckle, “I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Is that something people _plan_ to do?” You ask, incredulously.

She tips her head slightly, “I imagine so.”

The handshake has stopped, and you’ve forgotten to remove your hand, but she isn’t pulling away—simply letting it rest in your hold. You’re both taken out of the moment by the door opening, and your mother walking through—Astra steps back, away from you like she doesn’t wish to be seen standing so close. She watches your mother wearily, but the subject of her focus is glowering down at her screen too intensely to notice.

“Carter, we might have to swing back to the office, apparently I can’t leave for a moment without—,” _now_ she’s looking at you, and her eyes narrow on Astra, who still has the picture in her hold. Caught red handed. “Darling, what did I tell you about talking to known intergalactic criminals when I’m not around?”

You shrug, “Nothing.”

Her lips purse, “Yes, well, that’s about to change on the way to the office. Get your things.”

It could have gone worse, you suppose.


	45. snap shot 45. (  .4, 16, 28, 30 )

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK)** There’s some things in your life that just make you feel undeniably human, despite everything alien about you. You’ve known that you’ll always think of Earth as your home, because Krypton is just something your cousin talks about late at night like it’s some fairytale, like Peter Pan.

* * *

You’re used to coming home from school and finding Kara laying on the couch asleep in the sunlight—but that isn’t who you find there today. No, Cat is still in her pajamas at three in the afternoon, and every single curtain is drawn closed. There’s a little sliver of light that bisects the living room and kitchen, and you can see from the litany of toys on the floor that your younger brother has been keeping her busy. You can hear him breathing slow and deep in the other room, obviously asleep as well. The heartbeat of the two Grants ping along your bones, and it’s more comforting than almost anything else—strong, and human, and constant.

These are _your_ humans.

Cat’s definitely not ready to see the world, and you consider yourself lucky you’re one of the handful allowed to see her in socks that have holes, and pajama pants with little scottie dogs. You’d gotten them for her birthday earlier in the year, and she’d scowled at them the whole rest of the afternoon, only to wear them that night. Saying they were all that was clean—but she’s stopped the pretenses since. She’s wearing a dark unzipped sweatshirt, and the bright yellow shirt that was from the trip to the Grand Canyon when you were six. It seems like lifetimes ago, but you can distinctly remember the blaze of the sun, and how Kara had hoisted you up onto her shoulders for the family picture that sits proudly on Cat’s desk, and Kara’s work bench.

“Cat,” you whisper, even though you’re trying to wake her up.

She groans, and rolls over, pushing her face into the wedge of space at the back of the couch where the cushions meet.

“Cat,” now you poke her in the back, right when she’s ticklish, which means she nearly beheads you with a knee. Bleary green eyes wince open and she growls—legitimately growls—and frowns.

“What?”

“You said you’d take me driving.”

Eyes closed again, “don’t remember saying that.”

“You promised,” you remind, leaning forward so that your shadow blocks the sun.

“Well, life lesson, heathen,” she grunts, while rolling over—again—to burrow into the slightly starchy couch cushion. “People lie.”

“You _promised_.” You stress, talking a little louder.

She is hardly moved by your emotional manipulation.

“You’re young, you’ll get over it.” Her words are muffled, and even with your superior hearing it’s hard to make out exactly what she’s saying. So you _stare_ , right at the back of her head where you know she’ll feel it. She does. “Stop looking at me like that.” She might be human, but you _know_ she has some strange acute sense for when people are watching her—you’d think she hated being the center of attention if she didn’t _preen_ so damned much. “This isn’t working.” She growls, but her foot has started thumping against the opposite couch arm, in agitation and you begin the count down in your mind— _three, two¸ one_.

“Fine! Once around the block.”

Pumping a fist in the air, “yes!”

Cat huffs while throwing her body into a sitting position—the crease marks from the firm throw-pillow line her cheeks, and there’s a little speck of drool at the corner of her mouth that she hastily swipes away with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. No— _Kara’s_ sweatshirt. She’s glowering at you while finger combing her blonde hair back into some fashion of presentable; and failing pretty badly.

“You look like the front man for a Flock of Seagulls cover band,” you muse, once safely out of arms reach.

Cat scoffs, “you can’t name _one_ Flock of Seagulls song.”

“Can you?”

“Of course I can,” standing up she’s still pawing at her hair and scowling at the single line of light _daring_ to enter the living room. “The running one— _and I ran, I ran so far away_.” You’re skeptical, but you don’t want to try your luck, she’s walking across the living room and into the kitchen, stretching out her lower back.

The keys to her Mercedes are on the counter, and when you go to reach for them, she’s quick enough to snatch them up. “Keys?” You ask hopefully, batting eyelashes you know she’s a sucker for, but somewhere in her exaggerated frown, you know you’re in for a rude awakening.

“Oh, you thought you were driving _my_ car?” She’s grinning widely, and twirling the keys around her index finger—you _could_ get the keys away, but that isn’t playing fair, and if anything you’ve learned a little something about restraint. “Absolutely not—I don’t let your cousin drive my car.”

“That’s because Kara’s a shitty driver,” you supply helpfully, and her eyes narrow.

“Language!”

“ _Crappy_ driver.”

She sighs, and tosses her keys into her abandoned purse, knowing you’re too much of a chicken shit to go for them against her say so—one day. Cat walks past you, patting you ruefully on the shoulder while she makes her way toward Carter’s room. “I’m fairly certain that isn’t much better, but regardless.”

The nursery is spilled twilight—the windows perfectly framed and slanting light in, but away from the scrunching face of your baby brother. He’s tiny—only four months old—and every time you see him you want to pick him up and hold him close—protect him with everything you are, from _anything_ this world, or any other, has to offer. You know Cat feels the same, because she still presses a hand against her stomach when she sees him—protecting a boy who no longer exists inside her.

Carter’s snuffling, little fists beginning to ball and shake, and his eyes haven’t opened yet, but you can hear how his little hummingbird heart chitters and chirps awake. You know Cat can’t hear his heart, but somehow she knows too, leaning over the edge of the crib to trace a light finger against him cheek, encouraging a coo and another shaking fist. Small chubby fingers wrap around her finger, and the smile on her face is _awful_ —not the modern definition of it, but the archaic one. Full of wonder, inspiring awe. It makes your heart flutter because you can recall—hazily—that she used to smile at you like that, and sometimes—very rarely—she still does.

There’s a _bang_ , and _thunk_ , from the front door, and it isn’t a second later that your cousin is breezing in with her jacket half off and nearly tripping over an untied shoe lace. There’s smudges of grease and soot on her cheeks, and Cat rolls her eyes at the sight of Kara—pale yellow cardigan, white oxford, and beige pants. She’s smoothing out the front of her clothes, like that will somehow remove the black smudges from the fabric, and the tips of her fingers.

“I know, I know! I’m late.” She says, already striding across the room to scope up Carter, who is wide awake now and giggling—she presses a wet kiss to the bit of tummy that is exposed by his shirt, and his fingers find themselves tightly coiled into her hair.

“I’ll never understand how you manage to be late as often as you are, when you can break the sound barrier at will.” Cat grouses, arms crossed, but that soft smile is still on her face—it’s changed though, and you call this her _Kara Smile_. It is a special smile that you wouldn’t be able to properly define with words, but you know it when you see it.

“Superpowers or not, National City traffic always wins.” Kara says, tucking your brother into the crook of her arm, though he’s still high enough for her to blow raspberries against his cheeks. “Isn’t that right, buddy?” Carter’s howling with laugher, little face scrunching up with delight while Kara spins until she’s pressed against Cat’s side—who is still pretending to be annoyed.

“And you think we should encourage the chaos by letting the heathen behind the wheel?”

“Come on, Cat, we talked about this. He’s sixteen, he doesn’t want us to drive him everywhere. It’s not _cool_.” Kara is very invested in _cool_ , maybe it’s because she still only has a permit, and her driving encourages no confidence.

“Until I see that poor driving isn’t genetic,” Cat grouses, and presses a kiss to Carter’s forehead, and another to Kara’s cheek, “He’s not getting anywhere near Stella. He can drive Chuck.”

You can’t help frowning, because _Chuck_ is your grandfather’s 1987 VW station wagon, a boat sized vehicle that is somehow still driving a thousand and a half years later. You’d much rather drive _Stella_ , Cat’s brand new Mercedes lease.

“What?” You groan, “That car’s older than I am.”

Cat pats your cheek while she walks by, “I have shoes older than you are.”

“You know, you’re only fourteen years older than me.”

“Age gaps mean nothing if I’ve changed your diaper.”

* * *

Suddenly Kara’s laughed _good luck_ seems sarcastic.

“Seatbelt, and adjust the seat.” Cat’s in the passenger seat, put together like she might be going into the office—though the large sunglasses on her face did their best to obscure her face. Buckling yourself in, and making sure to push the seat as far back as it would go. “Find your shifter, and make sure you know what gear you’re in—we don’t need another instance of a car going through a wall.”

“She apologized for that,” you point out, while fiddling with the shifter behind the steering wheel, none of the cars you’ve seen your friends drive had them here, but it must be practically the same thing.

Cat just looks at you quietly for a second with an expression that _suggests_ that you might be an idiot, “apologies don’t remove cars from walls, expensive contractors and back-hoes do.”

“She offered to do it herself?”

Again, that _are you stupid_ look flits across her face, but she busies herself with making sure she is firmly strapped into the seat, and inhaling dramatically like she’s about to walk down death row. The keys are dangling from the ignition, heavy with keychains with family pictures—there’s one for nearly every year you and Kara lived with mister Callaghan, all those awkward grammar school pictures. There’s one new one—a picture Kara had convinced Cat to pose for, taken at the Sears in the local mall. Cat’s sitting on a stool, Carter balanced on her lap, Kara’s standing just to her side, finger caught by your brothers fist, and you’re standing behind them. One hand on Cat’s shoulder, the other wrapped around Kara’s.

Your cousin hadn’t cared that Cat said they could go to someplace more _reputable_ , she wanted to do it how mister Callaghan always did. You don’t point out that Cat had gotten all misty eyed when mister Callaghan asked her to join them at Sears for the first time—the proof tethered to these very keys.

Turning the key, and listening to the station wagon stammer to a start, you feel the vibration acutely through the frame and seat. Cat’s already white knuckled on the window, but her clenched jaw says she’s trying to keep her snappy comments to herself. Shifting into drive, you turn on your blinker, look over your shoulder, and pull away from the curb when traffic has passed.

The traffic wasn’t too bad this far from the sprawling city scape, but the cars that were on the road were ridiculously expensive, which made you nervous. You can practically _hear_ the creak in Cat’s knuckles as her grip on the door handle tightens. The car in front of you swerves a little, and slams on their breaks—you’re a good fifty feet away, so it’s no big deal.

But try telling Cat that.

“Stop! Stop!” You are.

Somewhere around the fourth _stop_ there’s an insistent slap to your bicep. You’re stopped, with a good ten feet to spare but Cat’s eyes are squeezed shut behind her sunglasses, and her nails are trying their hardest to dig into your arm.

“I’ve been stopped for the last two stops!”

 _That_ has her opening her eyes, and exhaling like she’d seen her whole life flash before them—the grip on your arm lessens, and she tucks back into the passenger seat. Arms crossing like she wasn’t just praying to whatever deity she chose in what she thought were her last moments.

“Well, don’t just park in the middle of the street,” she says gruffly, while looking out the window, “Go.”

* * *

“He’s turning!” Your ears are ringing from how often she’s yelling, “Turning!”

“I see the blinker!” She’s making _you_ panic, even if nothing is going wrong.

“Stop yelling!”

“You’re yelling!”

* * *

“So,” just one word from your cousin seems sarcastic, while you walk in with an arm around Cat’s shoulders, and three cups of froyo balanced in your other hand. Cat huffs, and you feel her shoulders lift and fall.

“I’ve hired a driving instructor to teach him,” she’d made the call while trying to calm her heart after the _near death_ experience she’d just had—you’d dared to make a left hand turn with a car within half a mile of you. “He needs professional help.”

You front, “ _You_ need professional help.”

Sharp nails pinch your side, and while it didn’t hurt, it was the principle of the thing. “Ow!”

“I heard that,” she says, while grabbing the top two cups of froyo, and walking over to Kara, handing her the half-gallon of toppings.

Kara’s laughing like she’s having the time of her life, eyes bright, “That bad?”

You and Cat respond at the same time, “That bad.”


	46. snap shot 46. ( 13, 25, 27 )

**SNAP SHOT (MARION).** _There’s a lot of beginnings in life, an impossibly long list of firsts. But some of them are monumental, they’re castles and skyscrapers in towns that have never come close to touching the sky. The first time you kissed the man who would be your husband, the first novel you got published, the first—and only—time you say “I do”._

* * *

“When I was a freshman, I had a teaching assistant in my renewable energy elective that thought he would change the world—not just a little slice of it, but the whole global landscape.” Kara’s standing up on Max’s other side, champagne flute raised just enough that the soft lighting glints through the bubbles. “Now, said assistant didn’t appreciate me correcting his mathematics in front of the class, but I think we’ve moved past that. Haven’t we, buddy?”

Kara’s grin makes Max laugh, and pipe up, “you think so; I’m playing the long game, _pal_. Just you wait.”

“Oh, I’m waiting, Max—everyone is, because with Marion at your side, there’s nothing you can’t do.” You adore her; that warm place in your chest that belongs to your husband’s best friend grows, because it’s impossible _not_ to love Kara Callaghan. “Be it getting back at me, or changing the world like you promised. I can’t wait to see it, and it means so much to be by your side when it happens. We’ve made it out of the minor leagues; but I plan to keep swinging for the fences.” She punches Max in the shoulder, and he gives her a vaguely awkward half-hug at the waist.

“And Marion—Mar.” She looks at you like you’re precious; you’d held this girl sobbing against your shoulder when Cat had moved across the world, you’d kept her insignificant little secrets—like a fear of water, and a hatred for watermelon—to yourself like they were classified. “You’re the best of us, girl, and I know you’ll argue, but we’ve got you beat on the majority. Three to one.” Her, Max and Cat— who sits at your side—are all nodding, raising their glasses slightly, and you feel like a dopy fool with how wide you’re smiling.

“You’ve managed to keep us grounded through it all, and I promise you,” now she’s addressing the crowd—business partners, and friends, and family alike, “That is no small feat; we can get pretty rowdy.”

Tapping her index finger against the glass, and raising it high, “I guess what I’m trying to say is—you guys made falling in love look easy. And even if we’re all secretly jealous—we’re happy for you, you guys deserve it. Cheers.”

There’s an echo of _cheers_ through the room, and you can see Cat making moon eyes at Kara, who’s already bickering with Max like they’re two children who have slipped the chaperone—you’ll let them have this moment of bonding. The music is starting up in the back of the hall, couples pairing off and stepping onto the dance floor—everything’s been done a little backwards, but Max never was a fan of tradition.

He’d been twirling you around the dance floor for the better part of an hour before you had to sit back down, a little out of breath—thankfully your feet are settled comfortably in sneakers below the dramatic flair of fabric that is your dress. Cat has finally managed to coax Kara onto the dancefloor, fingers curled around the lapel of her jacket, eyebrows arched in challenge.

You want _so much_ for them.

“They’re beautifully tragic,” you say to your husband— _husband_ , after what feels like an eternity, you can finally call the man at your side _husband_.

Max scoffs, “They’re idiots.”

“Idiots in love; that makes it romantic,” you hit him in the shoulder with the back of your fingers, he catches them and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“I don’t see how.”

No, Max wouldn’t, because he grabbed life by the stinger, and dared it to poison him. It was a special brand of brazen that seems to inhabit only a select few. When he wants something, he reaches out with both hands and damns the consequence—it’s something you love, and loath, about him. You’re sitting side by side at the table on the dais—watching Max’s best _-man_ and your maid of honor twirl on the dancefloor. Cat is significantly more coordinated, deftly moving bare toes mere milliseconds before they’d be crushed by Kara’s careless feet.

“They orbit each other,” you say while leaning into him, you’re speaking in low tones, because more than a few people are watching your friends dance. There’s something ethereal about them—how they shift, and step, and breathe together. Oh, you’ve seen how they can splinter and bend, but never break—how they tax the edges where one ends, and the other begins. But there’s a strength to them—they’re a bone that only gets stronger for every micro fracture that heals.

“Like they can’t fight the gravity that pulls them together,” two stars going super nova—spitting out ropes of stardust that wraps like celestial bows around them both, tethering them eternally together. Until their solar systems crash, and their stars burn themselves dark. “Helpless against the attraction, but still struggling with the depth of it.” You watch how Cat rests her head on Kara’s shoulder, fingers plucking absently at the back of her well-fitted tuxedo—nails bright and red against the black fabric.

The wedding is a lot larger than you’d imagined as a little girl—there’s nearly as many business associates as there are friends and family. But Lorde Technologies is still young, and you’d allowed Max to convince you that it wouldn’t infringe on anything— _the more the merrier_ , he’d said, with a completely straight face that you know cost him a little of his dignity. The banquet hall is spun through with floral arrangements, wrapped and tethered to cold metal and curved glass—a marriage of natural beauty, and modern minimalism.

“I don’t care how poetic you make it seem, Mar,” Max starts, pausing for only a moment to sip some ginger ale—you're so proud of him. “They’re still morons.”

Rolling your eyes, “And have you told them your opinion on the subject?”

“You try telling Cat she’s an idiot—see how long you last,” he scoffs, rolling shoulders, before slinging one along the back of your chair; you’re both watching them, how they’re barely even swaying anymore. No consideration for the actual tempo of the music, their mouths moving close to each other’s ear—existing in their own world, inside the one everyone else occupies. “And Cal—she just looks like a kicked puppy when you say things like that to her. I’m pragmatic, Mar, not a monster.”

“You big softie,” you jest.

Max just huffs and tangles a finger in the curls just behind your ear that no amount of straight ironing would tame—he’s being gruff because you’ve been onto him for years now, and he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like knowing there’s people out there that can see past his frat boy smile and air of arrogance. When you’d first met him, you’d loathed every narcissistic bone in his body—you’d dreamed of how satisfying it would be to slap the smile straight off his beautiful face.

It had been seeing him with Kara that had made it possible to change your mind—how they’d lean over hastily scribbled papers with bright eyes and eager grins—brilliant minds that would shape a generation. How they scratched, and clawed, and balanced their academics with their dreams—ones that became more, and more, and more solid as the months went by. Max had confided in you one night, after a party thrown by his particular section of the Greek alphabet had gotten out of control, and the police had been called. You’d sat beside each other on the curb, hands cuffed behind your backs, leaning against each other laughing because—because, it was all _ridiculous_.

“Did you _have_ to start a fight?” You remember how your face had hurt from smiling, and how his had probably hurt from the solid right hook he’d taken before Kara had wrestled the assailant to the floor. It’d been comical watching the two-hundred pound lacrosse player being restrained by a girl half his size—there’d been some logistical problems, but the boy had eventually knocked himself out with a flailing fist.

“He was getting handsy,” Max had defended, scrunching his face because his left cheek was already swollen to twice its size.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” he’d confided, leaning his shoulder against yours and blinking his one good baby blue eye, before looking across the parking lot where the more responsible—and less rowdy—students were giving their statements. “But—I didn’t like it. And maybe I want to help.”

You’d frowned, “Help what?”

He’d smiled. “Take care of you.”

And you were a goner.

You had no idea that night in lock up would lead directly to your wedding, but it’ll definitely be a story to tell your children. Smiling, you rest a hand against your stomach where a flutter stirs. You haven’t gotten a bump yet, surprising, considering how far along you are. Max sees where your hand rests, and lays his upon yours—his smile wide and soft and all the things so many people miss because they’re too busy listening to his five-syllable words and grandiose plans for the future. Which usually entailed him shepherding the dull and witless masses into a new golden age.

“Why did you say _beautifully tragic_?” He asks after a long pause, and you’re pulled out of your memories, he’s chewing slightly on his bottom lip—a habit no one knows he has—and tapping his newly acquired wedding ring against the stem of his champagne flute. “I’m hardly an English major, but doesn’t it usually go the other way around— _tragically beautiful_.”

You hadn’t done it consciously, but you mull his point, because whenever Max is willing to pay any mind to literary devices, you’re willing to sit down and discuss it. It’s the reason why Cat had always been your closest ally—while Max and Kara toiled the night away with their science and technology, you’d have dinner with Cat and _talk_. About ancient customs, and novels, and the stories she’s writing. The written word is your life blood, and she _got it_ , so much easier than those who thought with their left side brain.

“They’re the perfect tragedy,” you exhale, watching Kara smile wide, and stepping away as Clark sweeps Cat into his arms. “Saddening, meaningful.” She stands at the edge of the dance floor, hands loosely curled at her sides—and she turns to look at you, blue eyes glittering with the opaque white lighting, her lips pressed together like she might’ve been about to say something. “A tragic hero,” Max’s eyes find Kara without prompting, and your husband’s chief of staff just watches you in return—chin lifting and shoulders squaring.

“A beautiful muse,” Cat’s dwarfed by Clark’s awkward teenage frame, but the way he’s hand alight carefully at her hip make you smile. Kara’s turned back to watch them, smiling from whatever place in her heart burns for them—the whole thing, you’re sure. You know the blonde exudes love, which rushes through her veins like blood does yours. What does she usually say? When those blue eyes of hers get hazy and the lines of her face soften.

Until the stars go dark?

They break your heart.


	47. snap shot 47. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (WINN).** _You grew up a toy maker's son, imagination was practically a prerequisite for childhood. You played Dungeons and Dragons, and imagined whole worlds to have adventures. You feel like nothing should surprise you anymore; you're shocked at what still does._

* * *

“ _You_.”

You don’t realize you’re not alone in the employee breakroom until it’s too late—the door has been closed, and by the _snap click_ , it has also been locked. Cat grant doesn’t fit the backdrop of Black and Decker appliances that are long overdue for replacement, and event fliers posted to the front of the fridge—baby showers and birthday parties. You haven’t seen her at all today, which is unusual, but the entire floor knows she’s been down town with the outside law firm that deals with all insider knowledge impartially. The thirty-first floor—legal—is usually sour for a day or two afterward, like their integrity has been somehow challenged.

Security always sends up a _Grant Warning_ when the CEO returns—you must have missed it because of your late lunch, caught up in cyber space and the litany of programming caches you’d been sifting through for the last two hours. The tribune had stumbled somewhere this morning, and you’d been chancing through the code ever since—and finally were successful about twenty minutes ago.

Blinking owlishly, you don’t even know what to do now, confronted with the imposingly tiny woman who towers two inches shorter than you in impressively tall heels. You don’t understand how she doesn’t twist her delicate ankles—you imagine steel bones and blood made strong with the tears of employees has something to do with it.

“M-miss Grant!” You don’t _mean_ to stammer, but you can’t _help_ it. She makes your teeth chip together just by _glaring_ , though she isn’t doing it too openly right now.

“Winifred, I have a problem,” _problem_ is accompanied by the most fickle of wrist rolls, like she can simply wave it off without minding it too much. You don’t think she’s even noticed that she’s not staying to the _same_ wrong name.

Swallowing, “I—uh—I’d be happy to help, if I can.”

Cat Grant sits in plastic chairs like she’s on a throne—arm tossed over the back, fingers rubbing together like she’s removing the dirt of _peasants_ from her hands. “Carter has found himself enamored in some cultural phenom or another,” her mobile phone is set on the counter from somewhere—you have no idea where she had to stashed, considering the sheath she’s wearing is _tight_ , and there are—no pockets, or—not that you’re _looking_.

You’re looking.

“He wishes for me to partake, and try as I might, I don’t grasp the importance, or significance, of each— _thing_.” The screen is bright, and then dark—it isn’t until the big red exclamation point and Gyarados appears that you realize. _Pokémon Go_. She must have already made an avatar, because there’s a blonde haired blue clad trainer standing in mid-town National City—surrounded on three sides by pidgeys and eevees. She’s level one, and there’s only a quarter of the bar filled to reach level two.

“Pokémon,” you say dumbly.

She frowns, “Yes, do keep up.”

“You want to play pokémon,” _dumber_ , if possible.

Cat Grant frowns harder, and there’s something in her eye that warns you away from further numb idiocy. Looking at her while _very_ slowly turning the mobile with the tip of your finger, you tap the pokeball at the bottom and bring up her pokémon. She seems to have five weedle, and eight pidgeys, all below thirty CP. “You want to catch ‘em all,” as if the tag line will get you any further away from the awkward hesitance in your bones, “All the Pokémon.”

“And how many are there?”

“One hundred fifty-one—but, I think you can only get one hundred forty-two at the moment.” There’s rumors going around about exclusives, but the game is less than a week old, and you’ve been too busy playing to really hunt down the truths.

“What about the remaining nine?”

“They’re—exclusive?” You don’t know how to explain _legendary_ to someone who is a literal billionaire, and probably has her own definition to the word.

“To whom?” She’s tapping her screen rather aggressively, and an eevee pops up, it’s only 14CP, but you watch as the media magnate wastes five pokeballs trying to catch it, and shooting wide each time.

“To events? In the future—I mean, that’s the rumor going around.” She’s nodding like she understands this, and you imagine she must—publicity is kind of her area of expertise.

Somehow you spend the next hour with Cat Grant, playing Pokémon Go—she mangles every single name, and sometimes you can tell she does it purposely. She says _pokemans_ instead of pokémon, and oddly enough—it’s endearing, and you don’t know how to feel about _that_. She’s determined to get each of the eevee evolutions, and you tell her about the theory that you can pick which one you get by naming them after the trainers from the show—Rainer, Pyro, and Sparky.

“There’s a show?” She asks, eyes lifting from the mobile in her hand for the first time in twenty minutes.

“Oh yeah,” you say, forgetting for a moment who exactly you’re speaking to. “It’s been on since the nineties.”

Cat Grant hums noncommittally, and you both fall back into mutual silence—she doesn’t _show_ you when she evolves an eevee into a flareon, but she happens to put her mobile down on the table, and you glance over.

If your “that’s a pretty good CP,” has anything to do with her predominately smug smile, there’s nothing you can really do about it.

This is the longest you’ve ever been in the same room as her—bar that time you’d been fixing her display screens. Kara had intervened after all; there’s no one here to save you if the calm silence begins to crumble. Your boss seems to have adapted to multitasking—stylus in one hand, making red digital marks on her iPad, while her other tosses pokeball after pokeball at unsuspecting pokémon.

The moment you realize you’ve gotten too comfortable is when the door jiggles—the metal of the handle chittering, and you jump—preparing to throw yourself up and out of your chair, like you could somehow vacate the room in a manner beside the singular door. There must be some sign that you’re _freaking out_ , because there’s suddenly cool fingertips against the side of your wrist. The touch impossibly light, yet still somehow enough to keep you cemented to your chair.

“It’s Kara,” the media magnate supplies, fingers tapping absently against your wrist before retracting and going back to her tablet—eyes never even turning in your direction, never acting like that was out of the ordinary.

You don’t know what to make of it—Cat Grant does not do casual touching, she has her own _elevator_ , for Christ’s sake. There’s only a handful of people that she seems to be unable to help herself around—her sons, and Kara.

The door _clicks_ and opens, and it is Kara that walks in—she’s wearing a sweater vest you’re positive isn’t hers, and a salmon colored shirt you’re pretty sure your boss wore last week. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow, her slacks are tight and no, you aren’t looking— _you’re looking_ —with…flip flops. You’re positive there is a building wide ban on flip flops after the incident from the summer three years ago, but you know it doesn’t apply to Kara.

Not much seems to apply to Kara.

She sits down beside the business woman, who is marking up another article on her iPad, mobile open to a growlithe jumping and dodging. Kara slides it slightly in her direction, and flicks the pokeball on the bottom carefully—a perfect curve ball, and _great_ flashes across the screen, and after three rumbles, it’s captured. The silent blonde is rubbing fingers methodically up the bare arm of your boss, there’s no sign that she’s even been noticed, but you know she has been.

“Carter plays,” the silence is broken, “Whitney was embellishing on the _hows_ and _whys_.” You notice how she dodges around the word _help_ , like it’s a sin—but it doesn’t bother you because it is the highest praise you’ve ever gotten from the CEO. You don’t know if you’re supposed to be looking away from them—you always feel like you should—you don’t know why you’ve been accepted into whatever weird alternate reality that exists around Kara; but the media powerhouse is _different_ around her.

Green eyes always find you moments before you flee, seconds before you stutter out an excuse and remove yourself—because you only started noticing a few time in, that when you tensed to flee, so did Kara. She’d look nervous, hands retracting inward, pulling away—and you wonder how much she bases her actions off others. You wonder each time why she never talks. You wonder who exactly she is to Cat Grant.

This time, you don’t try to flee, you relax more if anything.

Kara doesn’t frown, but she stops the methodical caress of her hands—and your boss finally looks up, blasé and eyebrow arched. Kara just _stares_. You don’t think there should be anything frightening about the look—she’s even still smiling, but there’s apparently _something_ that makes Cat Grant—Cat freaking Grant—sigh and look back at her tablet, making a particularly harsh swipe of her stylus, and them turning the document page with a finger against the screen.

“Winslow.”

You don’t _mean_ to choke on the little bit of saliva that was apparently gathering in your mouth, but you can’t help yourself, and a little bit of spittle ends up on the table. Kara is laughing silently, pressing her forehead against her companion’s shoulder, and even the CEO seems a little amused, though it’s gone before you can even properly assign an emotion to her twitching lip.

The moment is shattered when the mobile on the table rings, and it is promptly swiped up—the lawyer on the other end of the line being read the riot act, and you can’t follow along. You can only watch how manicured nail knead absently at the back of Kara’s neck, and the blonde’s eyes slid shut. With a caress of fingers through hair Cat Grant is out the door, and across the bullpen.

“She’s—never actually gotten my name right.” You say, because you don’t know what you’re supposed to say in this scenario. Kara’s holding the forgotten iPad against her chest, and her smile widens a little. She stands up, quiet as always, and on her way to walk out—probably back to the desk she’s since commandeered just outside the fishbowl office of the CEO—she hip checks your shoulder and closes the door behind her.

You don’t know what weird alternate world this is.

But you don’t mind it.


	48. snap shot 48. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**SNAP SHOT (BARRY).** The differences don't surprise you, there's a million billion different realities out there, and you've only touched a handful. What surprises you is how much carries over; the little things that seem to stick around despite the differences in time, or place, or circumstances. The people they need to be who they are. These small truths that defy the vibrations of the universe that keeps everything else apart.

* * *

You stay the night.

Two trips to alternate worlds has worn on you, and after a lot of pinched lipped consideration, Kara offers to give you a place to stay. She’s careful, this teenager that’s found you, she is open, and friendly, and willing to help—but the idea of bringing you to someplace that’s _hers_ makes her nervous. You offer to find a hotel room, sure that there’s a ton available in such a large city, but she clamps down a hand on your bicep and you see something foreign in her eyes—something that you _definitely_ hadn’t seen in Kara Danvers—a _warning_.

“No, you can stay with me,” she’d said slowly, like even _she_ isn’t sure why she’s insisting, but there’s just enough pressure from small fingers to remind you that this human looking girl is hardly human at all.

She stops at some kind of tenement house and whisks away upstairs to retrieve—a child? He’s a toddler, his thumb in his mouth while his head nuzzles under her chin and against her shoulder. You aren’t surprised by how she hefts him easily like he weighs nothing—but big doe blue eyes settle on you quietly, and you’re struck with how exactly they match Kara’s. A son? You hadn’t pried _that_ much into the alien hero’s life, but you think it would have been mentioned if she had a son.

Maybe not.

She brings you to a book store.

Kara seems to have a ridiculous amount of blankets that she’s pulling from basements, and closets, and attics; by the time she’s finished the entire floor of the bookstore she brought you to is covered in linen and pillows. You’re wearing a sweatshirt that is worn and across the front is _I suffer from CFD; compulsive fishing disorder_ , and sweatpants that are five inches too short—and light blue. At any moment you’re going to feel like the adult in this situation— _any moment_ , because it hasn’t happened yet, and Kara’s looking at you like you’re an _idiot_.

All the ways that this _just Kara_ is different than Kara Danvers startles you, because they’re essentially the same person—doppelgangers that aren’t horribly out of sync, or opposites, or toxic. You wonder how many other similarities this Earth has to the one you’d just left—because the skyline looks awfully similar—sans the large CATCO Worldwide Media you’d spent most of your time there in. There’s a much shorter building in it’s place with massive amounts of construction going on.

This Kara— _just_ _Kara_ —settles a little differently in your stomach; her eyes are more cautious, and she uses her abilities more liberally. Like they’re too much a part of her to ignore—Kara Danvers had seemed almost unsure of what she was capable of. This Kara—well, this Kara you can believe is an alien; it is the intangible undefined things you wouldn’t be able to put into words of someone asked. Because _the way she blinks_ isn’t a good reason, but it _is_ a reason. Somehow.

She wants to know everything about her doppelganger—like the information will unlock some important piece of information she’s been looking for. Like this other version of herself could clue her in on what she’s supposed to be doing with her life—you know what thoughts like that can do. How they can mess with your mind when you see how the other side lives—what it _feels_ like to see your face on someone else, see how their eyes dull and their smile widens. It’s a strange feeling that doesn’t get any stranger the more often it happens.

Strange is strange, even for the Impossible.

“Where does she work?” Kara asks, splitting oranges into slices, and handing them off mindlessly to the toddler who’s cramming them messily into his mouth without regard for the blankets he’s wrapped in. The boy hasn’t spoken to you yet, but he’d been yammering on and on to Kara about what he’d done at the baby sitter—asking about _kitty_ , and Kara promising that the aforementioned feline would be by soon.

“A media company,” you hedge, because you know how messy it is when world’s collide.

“What does she do?” Blue alien eyes are watching you, though fingers are _still_ dividing up oranges—the kids had to have had at least five of them by now.

“Media-y…things?”

She doesn’t look impressed, even though her face is just as sweet as Kara Danvers—the narrowed eyes and pursed lips just make her cute. Even _cuter_ now that she’s a kid; her cheeks a bit rounder, and eyes a little wider. She’s all leg and arm—elbow and knee—but you know she’ll grow into it.

“How old is she?” Eyebrow raised, and it’s familiar somehow, but it isn’t from the Kara you left behind in the other world.

Where do you remember it from?

“Twenty-five-ish?”

Kara looks like she’s about to jump on you with a thousand and a half ore questions, but the front door jangles. You’re up and in front of her before you can think better of it, even if the teenager behind you and the toddler are still wrapped up in blankets on the floor. She blinks up at you like you’re finally doing something interesting, and the boy’s _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing. “Stay behind me,” you say, lowering your voice to a whisper. You don’t care that she’s a super strong _flying_ alien, she’s just a kid and nothing is happening to her on your watch.

“It’s Kitty!” The boy hollers suddenly, springing up from his mess of blankets faster than humanly possible, and he’s across the room and launching himself at the figure bracketed on all sides by street lighting. You can’t make out any of their features until Kara flicks two of the lights on and casts a soft glow into the bookstore. The boy is wrapped around—a girl, not much older than Kara, if older at all. She’s wearing a summer dress and a light jacket, slip on shoes pretty quiet against the ground.

“Miss me, itty bitty heathen?” The teenager coos, and the boy giggles in delight. Something about her is familiar—it’s the sharp line of her jaw, and the green of her eyes. But you’ve never been in this world before, and you aren’t really on a first name basis with the teenage population—except Kara, but she’s an _alien_ , and that’s different, and _not_ creepy.

Right? Right.

Kara walks over at a completely human pace, her eyes bright, and a smile on her face wider than any you’d been treated to in the few hours you’ve been here—she glances at you nervously, like she doesn’t know is she can do something in front of you. So you smile, wide and warm, and the kind that Iris said was your winning feature. She presses her lips together and nods, more to herself than you.

“Hey Cat,” she whispers, and leans in for a kiss. It’s all kinds of skittish, like she isn’t sure she isn’t supposed to—but the blonde has her snagged by the collar of her sweatshirt, and pulls her in for a firmer kiss.

Oh.

Oh, they’re—

Wait— _Cat_.

You now know where you recognize the girl from—she’s young, _really_ young, but there’s no question that this is Cat Grant—CEO of CatCo Worldwide Media, and Kara’s clever, too intuitive, and frankly frightening, boss. She isn’t that here, she’s smiling softly, their noses bumping, and it’s sweet—and you don’t even realize you’re smiling too until she speaks.

“Hey back, supergirl,” Cat says, while leaning away, and releasing the struggling toddler who throws himself dramatically into the blankets, rolling around like it’s what he’s _supposed_ to be doing. “And hello to you, strange man in girl’s sweatpants.”

You blush, itching at the back of your neck—not liking that she can make you nervous here too. She’s glaring at you, and you _really_ wished you had gotten a hotel room. “I—didn’t have anything. So, Kara let me borrow some.”

“Wonderful, a previously pants-less stranger.”

“He’s not a stranger!” Kara pipes up, and _now_ Cat’s interested, chin cocked, hand on hip. “He’s my cousin; uh—uncle Percy’s son, he’s back from college.”

“Yeah, I—uh—I’m back?” What is with people making you their cousin?

“Joy, I didn’t know you were gone,” she’s assessing you, and you don’t think it’s a good opinion she’s forming, but Kara’s tugging her by the fingers toward the counter and sliding down until she’s sitting with her back against it. Cat stands firmly, glaring at you until she also sits—more carefully—and finds an unpeeled orange. “How long will you be staying—?”

“Barry!” You supply, “My name’s Barry, nice to meet you.” _Again_.

“Pleasure.”

“I’m leaving in the morning. Going to drop by and, you know, say _hey_ to my uncle, and then—head off.”

“Back to college,” she says coyly, watching you carefully.

“Back to college,” you agree, trying not to fidget.

Maybe you’d been reading the whole situation in the _other_ National City wrong—maybe Kara Danvers hadn’t been pining after James, maybe she’d had eyes for another. Seeing these two teenagers shuffle closer and sit shoulder to shoulder, you suddenly can’t help thinking about moments in that other world. They’d seemed perfectly innocent there, but—maybe they weren’t. They’re murmuring to each other, smiling and laughing quietly, and it warms your heart because all those ridiculous little intangible things that you’d been trying to put into words smooth away when Cat’s near Kara.

She blinks just right, and the warning leaves her eyes, and she’s just a teenage girl in love.

Something hits your leg.

“They’re _gross_ ,” the boy says, peering up at you from where he’s shuffled his little body across the ground on his back, his head pressed into your thigh.

“One day maybe you’ll find someone you want to kiss,”

“Never,” he intones solemnly, shaking his head and glaring up at you. But much like Kara, his face is too sweet, and it really loses something in the translation.

“Why’s that?

He huffs, like you’re an idiot, and he’s humoring you. “Duh, ‘cause it’s _gross_.”


	49. snap shot 49. ( 14, 30, 32, 45 )

**SNAP SHOT. (CARTER)** _Your mother taught you forgiveness. Not because she thought everyone deserved it, or because she was particularly forgiving herself; but because she knew what held grudges could do to a person. To a relationship. She taught you to always keep an open mind, to say what you mean, and to mean what you say. Sometimes it's hard, to look past all the details, and all the feelings, to what the real problem is_.

* * *

 **Clark** : The throw down is happening right now. Bets?

 **Carter** : No question; Mom.

 **Clark** : I don’t know Lois’s been watching Rocky and pounding Red Bulls.

 **Carter** : Mom just started a cleanse.

 **Clark** : Fuck.

 **Clark** : Don’t tell her I sent that.

 **Clark** : We’re doomed.

 **Carter** : Yep.

Your mother has been in Metropolis for the better part of the week, but she’s been too busy to really involve herself in Clark and Lois’ life. Your brother had sent you a text at—in his words— _stupid o’clock in the morning_ , because your mother was there bright and early for “activities”. Which no one seemed to have a clear idea of what they entailed, until they were four activities in—there was meals, and sightseeing, and bonding. You know Lois and your mother get along, and that their bickering is some weird form of affection, but no one really seems to get that beside them—and you and Clark.

You’ve been home all week with Kara, who has tried to plan each day like she was the chaperone of a sleep away camp. Arts and crafts, a legitimate baseball game, amusement park—luckily today was just going to be the museum. There was a new exhibit about dark matter, and she’d offered to take you. It still astounds you that you have someone to go to these with—your mother and father try hard, but you know they aren’t _science people_ , and Clark doesn’t even attempt to understand. Just makes rude snap chat jokes and takes selfies.

 Kara’s been doing so well recently, she’d been so _present_ that it wasn’t even a question of who’d watch you while your mother was out of town. It had been _months_ since she needed to go to her apartment for the quiet, or that she’d simply zone out and forget what was happening around her. Clark said it was the first time it really felt like she was _back_ —that she was acting like herself. You didn’t know what that _meant_ , but knew it was a good thing.

When you’d woken up, she’d already been at the counter, tucking into what had to be at least her second bowl of cereal. Still in your pajamas, you sit down and make a bowl. She’s fidgeting for whatever reason, bare foot kicking the side of the island, and you wait—you’re good at waiting. She’ll eventually say what she wants to—

“Would it be alright—you know—if I took your mom out on a date?”

—say.

That isn’t what you expected.

Kara’s shuffling, and you blink, “Aren’t you two, like, married?”

Now _she_ blinks, “No.”

Pursing your lips, you go back to eating your cereal, you can positively _feel_ her vibrating next to you, her spoon tapping against the edge of her bowl. “You know _, i _eiu__ _,”_ you say, “I think you did this whole thing a little backwards. You’re supposed to date _before_ you have children together.”

The tapping stops, and just before you look up, she’s shoving your head to the side lightly. “You’re being a smart ass, aonah,”

You grin, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Sighing, very put upon, while looking at Kara, “Yes, it’d be alright.”

She looks at you quietly, in that way that makes you think she’s sliding away, but her eyes never go hazy, the blue never fogs, and the slight smile on her face doesn’t lessen. The cereal in her bowl is soggy and disgusting, which is a first, because you’re used to her going through a whole box of cereal before you even finish your first. Your mother would probably kill Kara is she knew that you were being fed Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner, but there was a firm promise of silence from all parties involved.

“You don’t have to be alright with it,” she hedges, “if you aren’t actually. You’re the most important person in your mom’s life.” She’s chewing on her lip, and has lost any pretense of eating. Hands lowering to fold in her lap, biceps pressed against the edge of the table as she leans forward.

“Do you—not want me to be alright with it?” You frown, suddenly nervous.

“No!” She all but shouts, pushing back from the table—which really means she’s pushing the table away, “I—no—I want you to be alright with this—but I—don’t want you to feel like you have to be…alright…with…this.” She’s losing steam, and after a moment her shoulders slump. She looks small in a way that has nothing to do with size—it’s in how her face scrunches, and her eyes squint.

“You can’t hurt her,” you tell her, serious because this is your _mother_ you’re talking about—the woman you’d do anything for. You know Kara’s your mother too—your _ieiu_ —but it’s still abstract and shaky at times, and sometimes she doesn’t remember that she’s supposed to be your parent, and not your best friend. She’ll let you skirt the rules, and never seems sure when you ask her for permission—always directing you toward your mother, who tells her every time she can made the little decisions on her own

“I won’t,” she promises quickly, looking just as serious.

“But you did.”

It isn’t that simple, you _know_ that, but you can’t un-remember the little cracks in your mother’s armor that were linked to the woman sitting beside you. How she’d visit the _Spectre’s_ memorial on the anniversary of the attack, how her cheeks would always be wet, and her eyes just a little more dim. She’d tell you it was alright, she’d read you stories that were bright and swirling with life, like they’d let you forget the empty bottles she sometimes forgot to tuck away in the recycling.

There’s a little weaseling doubt in the darkest part of your heart that you aren’t proud of—a part that you’ll never be able to explain to Clark, or to your mother, because it belongs to only you. It was hard to doubt a story—an idol crafted by the memories of others, but having her sit beside you—living, breathing, _real_ —you wonder what truths were colored by fabricated memories. Not lies, not half-truths—but things that are misremembered. Good times made better, bad times going foggy and distant.

“Carter,” she says your name hesitantly, dragging out the syllables, and you notice how her eyes haze a little at the edges, pupils spilling a little wider—and you wonder if she’s going to slip away like she hasn’t done in _months_. But she focuses, and swallows, and reaches out tentative fingers to press against your wrist where you’ve started hitting the edge of your bowl with your spoon. “I wish I could tell you that I’ll never have to make that choice again—that it’s impossible, but…”

“But you can’t,” you finish, not pulling away, but not leaning into her because it isn’t _fair_. None of this is fair. Your family exists in a state of borrowed time, constantly lending and stealing moments because nothing is assured. “Because you’re a hero.”

“Because I love you,” she says instead, “and your mother, and your brother. Sometimes, way in the back of my mind, I think about how it’ll be alright if I just protected those who’re _mine_. But I won’t make your legacy the ashes I leave behind, Carter. I can’t be that selfish.” Her hand has turned to hold yours, her hand isn’t actually larger than yours—her fingers are thin, and her palm narrow, and there are no ridges on her fingertips. She’s watching you intently, and her eyes are wet, but she’s not crying.

But you are.

You feel stupid when you feel the first one drip off your chin, and then the second, but she’s holding your cheeks carefully, leaning forward until her forehead is pressed against yours. She’s whispering softly—English, Kryptonese, they melt together with the throbbing in your ears. But you hear your name over and over, like a prayer she can’t help— _Carter, Carter, Carter_. You hiccup, and cough out the words, “You left us.”

_You left me._

You don’t know where the acid burn at the back of your throat comes from, but suddenly you can’t stop. You were never wanting growing up—you had your mother, your father, and Clark. You had aunt Alex, and Mrs. Kent. Your family was never conventional, but that had never mattered, because there was _love_. But each and every one of them had a spot in them that was empty, a place that belonged to a person that was gone, and you’d always felt somehow separated because you couldn’t never readily identify the emptiness inside you.

Kara was a ghost. A lingering presence that touched everything, but you could only ever understand so much by listening to stories, or watching home movies. You’d read about her in practically every science journal you’ve picked up—absolute strangers seem to have a clearer impression of the woman who was your ieiu. They’d talk about her infectious laugh, or her trademark suspenders, and you can only think about how you didn’t know her—your mother would say you had her smile, or her poor posture, but it was all just—just words.

 _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ She’s saying it softly still, and you don’t know when she slid off her stool, or when you followed, half curled into her side, her nose pressed into your hair. She’s holding you tightly, her fingers clenched into the fabric of your sweater. You don’t mean to sob, but they’re wracking your body, and you can’t _stop_. Kara’s making soothing sound in your ear, and holding you closer, and you’ve never—she feels like _home_. Warm, and comfortable, and safe.

“I held you when you were born,” she whispers, “You were just this—this tiny little person who meant the world to me. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I loved you in that moment.” Her heart beats fast, like a hummingbird against your cheek, and you don’t even know if that’s _normal_ —Clark would know, your mother would know—but you don’t.

“Your mom was sleeping, and you just—you grabbed my finger, and I realized I would do anything to keep you safe.” You feel wetness on your cheek, and realize she’s crying too, holding you tightly. “ _Anything_. That day that—when I went away—I wasn’t a hero, I was a mom. And I’m so sorry I left, Carter, I’m so sorry you grew up without me.” And it was like some valve inside you opened, swinging free and letting all the pain spill out. Out of your bones and blood, out of all the dark little places you hadn’t realized resentment and hurt were being stashed away.

You’re still crying, but it’s softer, and you can breathe more easily. Kara’s combing soothing fingers through your hair, and you breathe deeply when she asks. “Do you forgive me?” Like she isn’t sure about the answer, like she’s afraid of what you’ll say—nodding your head quickly against the solid line of her shoulder. It’s strange how her arms remind you of the blankets your mother used to wrap around you when you were young and the world seemed impossibly large.

“I love you,” you say, because you can’t not say it.

She tightens her hold, “I love you too, buddy. _So much_.”


	50. snap shot 50. ( -, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT. (J'ONN)** There are spans of life that can't be defined with simple default words; childhood, adolescence, adulthood. There are moments that can be days, weeks, or years, that are defined by  _befores_ and  _afters_. Events, and people, that define whole sections of your life, even if you never intended for them to. Whether they're at the periphery, or front and center. These people leave impressions. Good, bad, or otherwise.

* * *

The first time you see her is years before you ever meet her—little glimpses from Alexandra Danvers’ mind—they’re rare, and fleeting, but so strongly broadcast that you can’t ignore them. Almost as if the extraterrestrial has a thumb print on any thought of her—a phantom’s touch in the mind of those she’s encountered. It’s a strange occurrence, one that hints at only a few species in the galaxy—only a handful within a solar system or two. You’d approached the youngest Danvers with the intention on making good on your promise to her father—to keep her close in this world that has suddenly become leagues too small for the universe pressing down on it.

Jeremiah Danvers had died because he was a good man—a rare thing, truly—and you’d promised to watch over his family. To keep them in mind always while you safe guard this temporary home you’ve found. “My daughter,” he’d said, smile too wide for a man leaking blood between his teeth, your hands pressed against his chest—the red oddly complimentary to the green of your skin. It had glittered and slid, and it had made you uncomfortable. “She’s smarter than me, J’onn, so much smarter. If anyone can save this silly little dot of blue, it’s her.” He’d coughed, frothy red erupting from his mouth, and you know that means his fragile human lung has collapsed.

But he still smiled—good men do that, you’d come to realize, “Do you see her?”

You did—because his mind was filled with his daughter—bright, and clever, and _good_ , like her father. And somehow little shards of his love for this human child delved into your martian biology, lodged itself in places you could not point out in medical scans, or examinations. Somewhere metaphorical and soft. Those places had never existed before you’d spent hours in a rainforest hovel with a dying man who insisted on dying— _for the greater good_. These little portions of Jeremiah made you feel human, even though you weren’t, because you could _feel_ the emotion pouring into you as you sifted through his thoughts of this girl he loved wholly and completely.

So when you’d approached her between classes—organic biology, and advance calculus—you’d been prepared to tell her just enough secrets as it took to interest her into considering your offer. You’d parsed out the least damning truths to open her eyes, and you’d search for that same adventurer glint that had lived in her father’s eyes.

But instead, you’d been bombarded with recollections of intricately build spaceships in swamps, of little girls with burning blue eyes, and languages that you know, but could not recall. Alexandra Danvers had stared at you while you’d pressed fingers against your temple and sorted through the memory—because it was a memory, only to find another tethered to it. Woven together with links made recently, still fresh and bright in her mind—a young woman, blonde with blue eyes, who hid behind thick framed glasses, and tucked her hands away like they were dangerous. Of a smaller blonde, and a little dark haired boy— _Kara,_ you hear the name in the whip sharp way the small blonde said it, and how the alien softly sighed it herself.

Alexandra Danvers got infinitely more interesting after that.

And you stop digging around her head, put the respectful distance between your mental intrusions and the slight field of energy that repels unwanted attention from her mind. It’s good for a human, not against you, but plenty to start with to succeed within this line of work. And succeed she does—flourishing with perfectly set marksmanship, and a mind that flattens problems like a steam roller. Smart, and quick, and unafraid to be wrong—an important trait, especially when there are other intelligent people to balance her ideas, to help mold and drive the progress.

A natural born leader.

You don’t tell her that you knew what Kara Callaghan was when she was escorted in handcuffed and unsure—you didn’t know _exactly_ , but you knew enough. Knew she wasn’t any harm to this planet you promised to protect. Knew _especially_ , that she wasn’t any harm to the girl—now a woman—you’d promised to protect.

And that was how this girl, who’d only been a figment in Alexandra Danvers’s mind—became a common fixture in your life. She’d walk into the DEO bag on head and handcuffs an afterthought, chatting away with the agents—asking after children and sick family pets. You wondered if it was some alien aptitude of hers—making humans feel at ease, making _you_ feel at ease. But then you realized—no, that was just Kara. She _cared_ , more than most, and there was really nothing preternatural about it.

And when she was gone—you felt it.

It wasn’t just because there was shades drawn in the small corner office she’d used when at the DEO, or because Alex had actually taken a week off for the first time since she’d been an agent to help square away Kara’s grieving family. No, it was a notable vacuum that you couldn’t define, because it was just—there. It lingers like a shadow, lost somewhere in high noon—but with the knowledge that it would always return. Eventually, the dark would stretch across the ground until it connected to the greater blackness of night.

A boy had become a man in her wake, had become a hero in his own right—telling the story of a planet you’d never gotten from Kara in all the years you’d known her. She’d sit beside you when an agent was lost in the field, quiet and unassuming, and something about her silence was comforting—you knew she wasn’t human, just as she knew you were human. It was a delicate balance that seemed to be made so much easier by comfortable silence. “There’s a lot worse reasons to die,” she’d said finally, hands twisting between her knees where she sat on the steps, “A lot worse than dying to protect the people you love.” There was a story there—of senseless loss, but you know too well.

You’d lost your whole world—and the _senselessness_ of it still wore away at you.

Superman wanted nothing to do with the DEO, he condemned the whole organization—the people who’d given his cousin a nuclear warhead, who had strapped it to her back and allowed her to blow herself up. It was a dislike that was empty and vague—but one he had to keep to protect himself from really thinking about how his cousin had done that all on her own. She’d stripped the damned warhead down herself—wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do it.

“They wouldn’t get it right,” she’d said, a smile that was wan and resigned both.

The smile of someone who knew they’d die—but knew there were worse reason to die than protecting the people they love.

* * *

All of that brought you here.

To the ruined shoebox apartment of Clark Grant Callaghan.

Carter Grant stands behind the chair his mother’s sitting in, frowning even though his mop of dark hair and still young face doesn’t scowl as easily as her—he’s tall and thin, and nearly a man. You have difficulty thinking of him as the boy Kara would go on about, who was the light of her life after so much dark, so much tragedy. The shirt he’s wearing is pressed and white, but there’s a splash of red at the shoulder—a splash of _blood_. You can smell the copper in the air, and even though it isn’t from these two humans, it _is_ human. You see how he shifts, how his blue eyes stray to the streak of color on him.

“What happened to her?” Cat Grant asks, her face drawn, and her fists clenched.

A crack of noise in the silence.

You expect her to be angry, expect the sharp sizzle in the air that would let you know where she is emotionally, without having to slip into her mind. She’s projecting loudly— _is she alright, it’s my fault, what happened, what happened, **not again**_ —but they’re disjointed and slanted, like even she can’t hear them. You hear it over and over— _not again, not again, not again_. She’s watching you like her namesake, quietly and with consideration.

Despite your martian capabilities—you feel very much the mouse.

“It was an—infection, of sorts.” An _infection_ that devoured all her goodness, and locked it away somewhere hard and cold inside her. Something hot and red that pulsed through the Kryptonian’s veins and burned at the back of her tongue. She’d fought it valiantly; struggled and writhed until she was bleeding from the nose and ears, until she was screaming and thrashing. Until a few carefully utter words had caused her to snapped; had unlocked that gilded cage she used to hide away her anger, and her hate, and her fear—the door had swung open, and what had been released was truly terrifying.

“How does an _infection_ do that to a person?” She demands, standing up and stepping toward you, whole hands shorter in her bare feet. “ _Infections_ don’t make a person raze half the city to the ground.” She’s gesticulating toward the ruined window to her left, and the smoking city beyond—millions of dollars’ worth of property damage, and a body count already in the double digits.

“It changed her, Miss Grant. It removed all those kind and good parts of Kara that made her safe for earth,” you’re talking louder than necessary—a horribly human trait you’ve picked up—as if the volume would make her understand easier. It wouldn’t, because so much of this was impossible to understand. “All it left behind? Was that little voice that she was so good at ignoring; the one that reminded her that she was a god amongst men.”

“She isn’t a god,” this is said with the vehemence of someone who _knows_ a person, who can look past filters, and dive below façades. You’d never really been able to observe their relationship first hand, always a step removed—hearing second hand from Alex, or Kara—about bickering afternoons and quiet evenings. On how sharp edges wore away until they were safe to be held—about consistent light that eventually, with effort, chased away the worst of the dark, leaving only lingering shadows in its wake.

“I know that—you know that—even Kara knows that, under all that crap—but those people down there? They don’t understand how someone who can do what she does _isn’t_ a god.” Alex says while stepping forward, the crinkle at the edge of her eyes as they narrow, the frown on her lips severe. She’s smudged with dirt on nearly every inch of exposed skin, her arm set in a sling across her chest—acting like it doesn’t _hurt_ , but you’d heard how her bones groaned and snapped in Kara’s hand.

How she screamed.

Clenching your jaw, and resting hands on your waist, you can only watch the news on the television across the room— _the Spectre_ returning from the grave is nearly poetic, but no one seems to be able to appreciate that when the obsidian cloaked vigilante curls a fist with a swing and launches Superman into the stratosphere. The man of steel returns, a blur of red and blue, and they both crash through a building across town, rubble tumbling down to the street below—the humans on the sidewalks give up their gawking, and scatter. There’s a news scrawl at the bottom of the screen— _National City’s “hero” returns after fourteen years to wreak havoc in Metropolis_ —there’s more, but you can’t watch anymore, can’t stomach those quotation marks around _hero_.

You can’t look at what you hadn’t been able to stop.

You feel responsible.

“So what do we do?” It’s Carter Grant, who is every bit his mother’s son at the moment, jaw clenched, and blue eyes intense. But you see Kara in his posture, the rod down his spine, and the carful curve of his shoulders. Cat’s turning to look at him, her own face drawn, and eyebrows pinched—she takes the four steps needed to circle the chair, and rubs a hand up her son’s arm. They’re a unified front, a limping family that has two gaping holes in their sides—places held by their two Kryptonians, their orphaned aliens. You know Clark is somewhere in the city, nursing his hurts with Lois, or saving the people he promised to protect.

“We get her back.” This is from Cat, and said with all the certainty of someone who isn’t unaccustomed to fighting for what she wants. “Where is she?”

 _Where is she_? It’s the consummate question of the moment, because you know where she is—you know exactly where she’d go once there. Even considering that, there’s no easy way to _get her back_. How much will this family have to shoulder to be happy? How many times will they stagger and bleed, only to be left alive with the knowledge of everything they’ve lost?

“It isn’t that easy, it’s—complicated.”

“Much in life is as such. You’ll find, Agent Henshaw, I don’t balk at _complicated_.” Cat Grant, proclaimed media royalty, stands before you in a borrowed black polo, and ill-fitted tactical pants. Her feet look small and delicate below the heavily cuffed hem of starched trousers—but she’s sure footed, all her weight angled toward you, balanced on the ball of her foot, toes curling into the plush carpet. “Where is she.”

It isn’t a question.

“Do you know what she was trying to accomplish? What all this—,” gesturing out the window with a hand, to the rubble and ruin of the city, “—was about?”

“The infection,” she waves the word away like it isn’t important, like she doesn’t necessarily want to call it that, but she’s acquiescing for simplicities sake. “You said it altered her mind somehow. More prone to violence.” Green eyes are hard, despite the tears that have long since gathered in her lashes—a few rebellious ones tripping silently down her soot stained cheeks. But there’s no acknowledgement of them, as if her eyes simply leaked without her permission, and there was no emotional tether to justify them—you’ve been studying humanity for decades, and still Cat Grant confounds you.

“Yes, amongst other things.” Looking at the shattered city, the distant howl of sirens was getting closer. After all, this apartment building had taken a rather severe beating. “She wanted something, and she no longer had the capacity to care what stood in her way.”

You watch as she deliberates, green eyes firm and lips pressed together—both hands in motion, though it is limited just to her fingers. One plucking at the hem of the borrowed polo, the other twisting the rings on her left hand with her thumb. You only realize now that she’s been doing it the entire time—twisting the golden rings around and around, stopping every so often to worry her thumb over the prominent diamond. A nervous tick, a symbol of her worry—as if the pinch to her brow wasn’t enough. She’s a vibration of potential energy, shivering too slightly for any human to notice, but you see how every muscle in her body is tense—waiting to react.

The source isn’t from you, thankfully.

“She wanted Krypton,” Carter isn’t looking at anyone in the room, “Said that there were universes out there that it was still—that it never _died_. She met someone when she was a teenager, someone from another universe. That he could—go between them, if he went fast enough. Something about vibrations, she wasn’t really making much sense.” He looks so much younger than his seventeen years sudden, smaller somehow, with blue eyes slightly wet, and lips pressed together. You can see the boy now Kara would describe with wistful detail. His fingers keep moving like they want to pluck at the rust colored stain on his shirt, but he always shies away at the last moment.

This day could have gone a thousand different ways if events hadn’t combusted like gasoline in a forest fire—if Kara hadn’t intercepted those LexCorp bullets meant for Superman, and if she hadn’t had to fight the urges rising in her mind and body. If Lois and Carter hadn’t been abducted by assailants while their protectors were distracted. All of that was too convenient, too well planned—someone knew who Superman was, someone knew where to hit him to hurt the most, somewhere deeper than bulletproof skin.

Kara had fought the foreign invasion in her system—she thrashed and writhed, but kept herself in check. Veins pulsing red, eyes flickering crimson. You had every confidence she could maintain herself until Maxwell Lorde worked out a cure—dragged there by Agent Danvers, who seemed far too thrilled with the idea of roughing the billionaire up. The man’s mind had been a combustion of hate, and love, and worry, and fear—twisting together until even _you_ couldn’t work them through. He grit his teeth when he saw Kara, curled in the corner of a cell, a low Kryptonite pulse lining the walls.

It would have been enough if Maxwell Lorde hadn’t opened his mouth. If he hadn’t pressed a hand to the reinforced plexi-glass keeping the Kryptonian in place and frowned. Love, and worry, and fear swallowed his hate for a moment—it eclipsed the red, and pulsed bright and warm in his mind.

“How can you keep her here?” He’d asked, keeping his eyes on Kara as she pressed knuckles into her temples—but he had her attention, glowing red eyes were focused on him, despite the low rumble in her chest, and grit of her teeth. “They have her son—how can you keep her here.” All those hateful thoughts were smothered by the burning fact that this man had once been a father—he would have done _anything_ to save his child. Anything.

He expected nothing less, even from one he considered an enemy.

The same things that make humanity a marvel, are what you cursed in that moment.

That had been all it took. That part of Kara that was fighting to _stay put_ dissolved in seconds, it flitted away to the forgotten places in her mind, and there had been no time to react before the supercharged being was dismantling the DEO outpost from the inside out. Her _Spectre_ uniform deflected half the Kryptonite bullets that were sent her way—but the two that had made it through were plucked out with blistering fingertips and a manic grin. Eyes that had been blue once were blazing a stark mad sanguine—and then she was gone.

Tearing apart Metropolis looking for a boy.

It isn’t known exactly what happened after that, because Carter had been tight lipped until now—Cat had scarcely moved more than a foot away from him at any given time. Carefully watching the battle between titans on the screen—Superman and the _Spectre_. Goliaths in their own right.

And then—

And then Maxwell Lorde said he had a cure; it was loaded into a double barreled weapon hoisted up against his shoulder, and no one had looked convinced. No one looked like they wished to pull that trigger. There was no time, because Kara had found what she was looking for—the sky crackled, and the debris and cars on the streets below were sparking and lifting off the ground. The _whirr—whirr—whirr_ that permeated through Metropolis was getting louder. The particle accelerator in the bowels on LexCorp ready to tear itself apart. Everything dragging themselves toward the epicenter of energy.

There was no time to balk and fumble.

So you’d done it.

Had you’d said _I’m sorry_ before you’d shot her in the chest? Had you apologies when she blinked horror filled eyes up at you and then looked at the humming crack below her. She’d been balanced on the upper most spire of LexCorp, teetering carefully on a wire thin edge.

“I’m sorry,” she’d said, “I’m—I’m—maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I’m just not supposed to be…happy. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to leave Krypton.” There had been such a slack numbness to her face—pale and drawn—before turning the circular device on her chest, all the electricity rushed toward her, and tipped backwards off the edge of the building, plummeting into the fissure, and allowing it to snap closed behind her. All the cars had fallen, all the debris came to a rest—and Metropolis was left to mourn.

“She’s out there,” Carter says softly, hand falling from where he’d been fiddling with the sigil necklace around his neck—a relic from Krypton that Clark had made Carter from the metal of Kara's ship. “We just need to get her back.”

Alex steps toward him, uninjured hand lifting slightly, “…Carter.”

“No!” He’s louder now, eyes hot, “No! We left her for dead last time. We— _we_ _left her_.” Nostrils flaring, and now his fingers do touch the dried rust on his shirt, rubbing a thumb against it until there are just a few flakes that sprinkle off and to the carpet. “I’m not accepting it. I’m not giving up just because it’ll be _easier_.” You can’t unhear _we left her_ —you can’t stop imagining what might’ve been true if you had been as clever as Kara. If you had worked through the problem to the best possible solution. If you’d thought of—

 _Whoosh_.

You look out the ruined window and see a snap of blue and red streak past, the snap of a cape as it flourishes off into the distance. Diving into buildings on fire, toward sirens and the crackle of loud speakers—and then you’re looking at that too familiar crest—the House of El. But it isn’t Superman, it isn’t Clark—

—it’s Kara.

She’s more timid than you’re used to—it sits just below her skin in a way you aren’t familiar with. She’s not the most assertive, but there’s always an edge of _other_ with the young Kryptonian, a bristle of caution at her corners. Blue eyes are unsure, and wide, lips looking like they’d been subject to a fair amount of nervous chewing, even if there wasn’t a single mark to speak of it. She looks like the perfect bookend to her cousin—red billowing cape, dark blue suit, with that symbolic crest—not gold like Superman, but red. _Hope_ , she’d said one afternoon, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her sweatshirt. _It means hope_.

You have the benefit of distance—of having the fresh memory of watching this very woman tip over the edge, into a crack between worlds. You’d seen that her eyes were actually darker blue, and her cheeks a little hollower—giving her face a certain sharpness to it.

You have that benefit—but her family doesn’t.

They see familiar blue eyes, and whipping blonde hair through the blur of their tears and they lurch into motion. Cat has wrapped her in surprisingly strong human arms before the Kryptonian can move, a blonde head tucked under her chin, a warbling _Kara_ breathed into her collarbones. Kara seems to have some instinct born in her, because she’s wrapping arms around Cat like she knows exactly how to hold her—one hand centered on her back, clenched slightly in the fabric, the other smoothing across shoulders carefully. Eye squeeze shut and you can just make out the whispered, _Cat_ , that filters past her lips.

“Mama?”

The women separate just long enough for Carter to cross the room in strides, he’s too tall now to press his face to her shoulder, and burrow into her chest, and she’s positively dwarfed as he wraps her in his arms, arms shaking for how tightly he’s holding her. He’s sobbing, and all the pretense he’d had dissolves easily with his mother in his arms. All those hard teenage edges, and those dark looks simply flitter away while he holds her to him. Cat places her left hand on her son’s back, rubbing along his spine, and when she find’s Kara’s she curls two fingers around hers—making a connection.

“You had us worried, supergirl.” She says, soft, and thick with the tears that she’s swiped from her cheeks and eyes. There’s the shadow of exhaustion her eyes, the crinkle of worry in her brow. Carter’s taken a step back, following in his mother’s footsteps and rubbing the back of his wrist across his eyes and cheeks—removing the moisture, but leave a haze of red in the whites. Kara smiles, an involuntary thing, before it shakes, and her own brow tucks—worried, afraid—and she crosses her arms across her stomach.

“Miss Grant,” she says, licking her lips and rolling her shoulders, trying to find that confidence that you’re so familiar with. She tenses then—eyes looking just beyond them, and you see she’s watching the recorded news footage of _the Spectre_ throwing Superman through buildings. She doesn’t see how Cat has tensed, how she’s recoiled slightly and how green eyes are suddenly _alert_. You know Cat Grant doesn’t miss all the things you’ve already noticed, not now that that’s actually looking. She’s frowning, and eyes are wetting again, but she breaths deep enough that you can imagine how her chest burns.

“ _Ieiu_?” Kara’s looking at Carter like she’s never seen him before; eyes wide, lips parted, and posture rigid. Her arms have fallen to her sides, and she’s taken a tentative step backward. Carter looks like he’s been struck, and his mother coaxes him to sit down, turning her back on the superhero. Alex has made her way to your side, there’s that energy about her that makes her a good agent, an energy that she’s long since learned to harness.

Leagues, and miles, away from the scrawny girl you'd seen in Jeremiah Danvers's mind.

“These dimensions—realities—whatever you call them,” Cat’s looking at her son—ignoring the newest arrival—but she’s talking to you. “Is there a price?”

Frowning, “Price?”

“For opening the door to them; is there a price?” You understand what she’s asking—and you want to tell her _not usually_ , and _no_ , but there’d been something particularly reckless in how the suddenly amoral Kryptonian had gone about her task. It had been like hotwiring a car, a quick fix and a singed set of fingertips.

“An equal exchange.” You say finally.

She nods, like this somehow makes sense, and smooths Carter’s hair back once more, kissing his crown softly before turning and walking toward the kitchen, away from everyone gathered. But as she passes Alex, she pauses—looking down at the hand that your agent has curled around her arm. “What’s going on, Cat?”

Cat Grant smiles—but it isn’t happy, but neither is it anything else. Like her face is moving without her permission, like her body has taken over, and her mind has tucked itself away someplace.

“She isn’t wearing her ring, Alex.” She finally says, like that answers everything—and it does.

This Kara—whoever she is—has a bare left hand, where the familiar golden ring she always wears is absent.


	51. snap shot 51. ( -, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [canon/38]

**SNAP SHOT.  (KARA GRANT)** _A day at the zoo; carefully crafted between two personal assistants, to make sure that two multi-billion dollar enterprises would be able to survive without their makers for a day. A whole day. From start, to finish._

* * *

_Beep._

You don’t want to wake up yet, the sun hasn’t even risen and the air is still chilly—moisture hanging in the breeze like a promise of autumn to come. You’re face down in a pillow that smells like cedar and eucalyptus, and you know who it belongs to—you’d been nosing along the crown of a head that smelled exactly like this last night before you’d fallen asleep upright on the couch. Cat had coaxed you to your feet and guided you to bed, you could remember warm lips against your temple, and the soft _click_ of a door closing as she left. _Beep_.

There’s no noise in the house yet, no one up to begin puttering around, but you can’t get back to sleep because your phone won’t stop _beeping_. You know it’s because you haven’t looked at the message you’d gotten, but you can’t bring yourself to roll over and dig through the pair of pants you’d kicked off sometime in the night. _Beep_. Groaning and sluggishly rolling, an arm drops over the edge of the bed, and you paw through clothes, until you find the pocket you’re looking for. You strangle the next chirp from your mobile by tapping impatiently at the screen, and holding it up so that you can blearily glare at the message.

[07:43AM] **Superboy** : Are we still going to the zoo?”

 _Beep_.

[07:51AM] **Superboy** : I know you hear this.

 _Beep, beep_.

[07:52AM] **Superboy** : I won’t stop.

[07:52AM] **Superboy** : Ever.

Groaning again, you ignore the insistent beeping of the many messages that you know he’s just sending to annoy you. They’re so close together the little warning chirp seems to interrupt itself over and over— _Be-beep, be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-beep_ —and then there’s quiet. And you can only smile because suddenly you feel like Jack Bauer, and you have thwarted the terrorists—they’ll never win on your watch. Opening your eyes to look at the ceiling, you get ready to force yourself out of bed and into motion. Usually it isn’t this hard to get up, but you’d had a trying last few days—a downright absurd amount of criminal activity, a dirty nuke in Ukraine, and a not so peaceful protest in Louisiana.

Sitting up and resting your elbows on your knees, you begin tapping a response to Clark, even though you know he knows the answer to his question.

[07:58AM] **Supergirl** : Yeah, I think we’re leaving at nine; traffic’s going to be horrible. Cat doesn’t want to take the town car—she wants to _drive_.

Tossing your mobile back onto the bed, you walk into the adjoining en suite to turn on the shower—as hot as it’ll go, hoping to rinse out the few lingering aches that you know are mostly in your head. Phantom pains that you’ve developed over the years because sometimes you can still remember growing up on Krypton—how pinches felt, and scrapped knees hurt. You remember that—unlike Clark who has only known Earth’s invulnerability—and sometimes you miss it.

Your shower is cut short when the half-closed door is thrown open with much gusto, and a small streaking two year old screams while scrambling through the shower curtain and into the basin of the tub. You scream—he screams, and from somewhere in the guest room, Cat laughs. Hardly at the age when nudity matters, your darling boy seems content to play with the shampoo bottle you dropped while screaming; he’s obviously gotten over the whole ordeal. Building a mound of suds on his head, and smacking little hands together to watch how the bubbles splat and float.

“He _was_ clean and dry,” Cat comments from the doorway, you can see her hazy figure leaning against the door, and when you poke a head out you see that she’s fully dressed. “I wish he’d stay that way.” Denims that are from college, canvas flats, and a familiar shirt— _Hell’s Kitchen_ in bold across the maroon fabric. She looks like the girl you’d falling in love with at fifteen; even that dimpled half-smile that seems to soften whenever her eyes meet yours. It gets downright mushy when Carter starts throwing handfuls of soap onto the bathroom floor, making noises that you can only really compare to a Velociraptor.

“If wishes were horses, we’d all own ranches.” You say, trying to capture small hands before they shovel every bit of foam from the bottom of the tub, and out onto the floor.

“I don’t think that’s how the proverb goes, dear,” she frowns, but not like she actually _means_ it—you know the difference. And it _is_ a very distinct difference.

You smile, ignoring the suds slipping down your forehead and into your eyes. These moments are a warmth in your chest, bleeding into every part of you like a bloodless gut wound—pouring into every fiber of marrow, and every pint of blood. _Beep_. _Be-beep._ Cat’s eyebrows perk, and you point behind her, saying “Can you get that and answer Clark?” before ducking back into the shower and rinsing the soap from your hair, having to stop twice to prevent Carter from drinking soapy water.

A few minutes of wrestling later has him clean from head to toe, and happily splashing in the—thankfully—soap-less water at your feet.

“The heathen had a few choice comments about my driving,” came her disembodied voice from the bedroom, and you can make out the _click click_ of her typing a response, and can only sigh at what is going to be another text argument between the two most stubborn people in your life. _Be-beep, be-be-beep_. The sheer number of texts coming in make you roll your eyes while gathering Carter in a large towel and swaddling him so that he can’t wiggling free—doesn’t mean he doesn’t _try_. Cat is laying on her back in the middle of your unmade bed, mobile phone held directly above her face while she taps away a response.

“And the verdict?”

“We should have put him up for adoption,” she comments glancing your way, doing a double take when she realizing how ridiculously small your towel is—apparently you have only one full size towel in the actual bathroom, and yours is currently being commandeered by a two year old bucking like a bronco on your shoulder. “Clark—I—I’m—me—talking about Clark—not that—okay.” Cat Grant doesn’t stumble over words often, but when she does it’s like she goes for a Nobel Prize in it. Her eyebrows furrow, and her lips purse, and it’s like she’s decided that she’s pretending it never happened because she’s turning back to her conversation with Clark—cheeks a little redder than usual.

“But who would you have snappy conversations with if we had put him up for adoption?”

“Someone who doesn’t use _your mom_ as a comeback to nearly everything?” She blithely responds, _oof_ ing when Carter vaults up the height of the bed and sprawls his all-elbows-and-knees body across her stomach.

“Your mom!” He chirps, and Cat _groans_.

* * *

“I can fly,” Clark wallows from his cramped place in the backseat, “does she remember I can fly? The zoo will be closed by the time we get there.” His face is pressed against the glass, having long since given up supporting his own weight. His six foot four frame doesn’t fit properly into the backseat, but you’d won the rock paper scissor game that determined the winner to simultaneous _shotgun_ dibs. You make sure to make a show out of stretching your legs out into the ample room provided to the passenger seat, before turning to look at Cat—who is drumming her nails against the steering wheel.

“I think she’s aware,” you answer in her stead, because she was getting that _twitch_ at the corner of her eye that said her temper was rising. It was your warning that she was spoiling for a fight, even if the fight she got wasn’t necessarily the reason she was mad. The only person who doesn’t seem to mind the ridiculous traffic if Carter, who is playing a game through his open window with the two children in the backseat of the car that seems to be keeping even pace. You’ve had the constant drone of _I spy with my little eye_ for the last twenty minutes.

It had gotten to the point in traffic where everyone was honking their horn, a cacophony of noise that seemed to have no end in sight. _Beep, be-beep, beeeeeep._ You’d opened your window and basked in the morning sun, eyes closed and breathing deep. Rolling your head to your other shoulder and watching Cat from behind sunglasses that you don’t need. God, she’s beautiful. The thought sits in your chest like a hot stone, resting on your heart, making it burn and ache and smolder. You know there will never be a moment in life that you aren’t horribly, and impossibly, in love with this woman.

“You’re staring.” She says, bringing you back to yourself, and you smile because she isn’t even looking at you—still drumming her fingers in agitation against the steering wheel, then smoothing them across the leather and letting it fall onto the middle console between you. You hardly hesitate—just long enough to see her slight smile—before you curl your fingers into hers. Your palms fit together perfectly, they always have.

“I’m looking.”

“And how is that different than staring?” Cat can’t hide the smile now, even when the car behind her seems determined to lean on their horn indefinitely— _beeeep_ —the little twitch at the corner of her eye remains, but it smooths away and she’s left only with that half-smile.

“Well, there are very distinct differences,” you begin, still _looking_ while rubbing your thumb across her knuckles and then sliding back between her fingers. “ _Staring_ implies some kind of vacancy. I was having many thought—filled with thoughts, even. More than I knew what to do with. A _Surplus_ of thoughts, if you will.” You’re putting your best _Cat Grant burgeoning media magnate_ voice on; firm, direct, concise. It said _I’m right, even if you don’t know it yet_ without actually having to waste the breath on the words themselves.

“And what thoughts would that be, supergirl? Because there was a pretty vapid look about you,” you can’t help smiling, because she’s not even trying to simmer the grin on her face. Maybe it’s just that the closest _beep, beep_ is a few lanes away and they’re muffled and barely audible.

“Oh God,” Clark groans, rattling the car slightly when he _thumps_ his head into the window frame. “They’re flirting.”

“Flirting! Flirting!” Carter’s rocking in his seat, banging his head on it, though doing no real damage due to the copious amounts of cushioning.

“Our children would prefer to give themselves brain damage, than watch us— _allegedly_ —flirt.” Cat surmises, looking so very put-upon—not really—while finally allowing her hand to fall from her death grip on the wheel, and relaxing into her seat.

“I mean, we’re pretty disgusting.” You hum, cheek resting on your shoulder, watching as Cat stifles a laugh—her face settling into vague neutrality, though with how hard her lips are pressing together you know she won’t be able to fight the smile for long.

“Abhorrent,” she agrees.

God, her eyes. She’s slid her sunglasses to the crown of her head, squinting into the sun with the kind of stubbornness that can only be matched by Clark—she’d go blind before she conceded to nature. The light seems to seek out every fleck of golden-brown in the green of her eyes until they’re a kaleidoscope of color. When you’d been young, and still so new to Earth, you’d asked her what color her eyes were—she’d laughed and leaned forward, opening her lids a little wider than usual and allowed you to look yourself. You’d been snarled in the color of them, the brightness and vibrancy that _lived_ inside her even at such a young age.

Young, and bright, and beautiful—just like the sun that now bathes you face in warmth.

“Can you guys just—I don’t know— _not_?” Clark asks from his small cramped corner of the car, and it’s the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back, because Cat’s laughing—and you’re laughing—and Carter’s…you’re not exactly sure what Carter’s doing, it’s some kind of hybrid between a squawk and a scream.

“Yeah, supergirl, can we _not_?” Hands linked, eyes snared—it’d been like this the last few months; you don’t want to say _closer_ because you’d been practically attached at the hip for twenty years. You want to pull her aside some quiet nights as ask _are we us again_ , but you don’t have that kind of bravery. The kind that bleeds out of you when you think that questioning this might cause another rift, another distance. But the intimacy is there—gravitating toward each other like the cosmos demands it; entwining fingers, and linking arms.

* * *

“The zoo’s closing.” You say, still standing shoulder to shoulder with her at the railing just outside the tiger exhibit. You can spy the faintest flashes of orange and white through the foliage, but there’s really nothing of interest to see—just the hum of cicadas, and the soft music playing over the loudspeakers.

“We have a little more time left,” she says, leaning her head against your shoulder.

You can only tuck your nose into her hair, inhaling everything that is _her_ , everything that makes your heart skip faster, and _thump_ harder. “The rest of our lives,” you promise her, because anything else would be a lie. And you try not to lie to Cat anymore, because it leave a sour taste on your tongue, and heaviness in your chest that clambers and clinks. It feels _wrong_. If there is anyone in this world—or any other—that can keep your secret safe, it is Cat Grant.

“I think the zookeepers might have something to say about that,” because she doesn’t want to assume you mean exactly what you mean—she steps closer, and around, fitting perfectly between your body and the railing. Her hands are on your chest, warm and soft, and her lips have the slightest curve of a smile—barely there, but so _genuine_ , it makes you ache.

“I’d like to see them try to move us,” you say, as Cat shoves you slightly while laughing, you balk and huff, “No! Seriously. I don’t know if you’re aware Miss Grant, but I’m kind of a big deal.”

She blinks up at you, “Keep telling yourself that supergirl.”

“No, no. _Other_ people tell me this,” you assure, stepping just that much closer until you can feel the entirety of her pressed into you. Her fingers are soft against the pulse of your neck before she combs up into the mess of your hair, “Just the other day a very well-spoken two year old told me I was—and I quote— _the bestest everest_. And he may, or may not, have told me his mother was smitten.”

“Smitten?” God, she’s beautiful. Leaning down until your forehead touches hers, she’s smiling wide, and you just need to feel the softness of her lips against yours—you need the heat of her palms on your cheeks, the scent of her filling you.

So you kiss her.

She _hums_ into your mouth, no need to be on her toes since she’s on the curb beside the railing—you hold her to you, hand on her hip smoothing up until you can curl around her shoulder and down her back, pressing her into you. It’s chaste—sweet and soft—and you break away with a slight giggle, downright _giddy_.

“Who’s smitten now?” She asks, still close enough that her lips brush yours.

Rubbing the tip of your nose against hers, “Me.”

This feels like _the moment_ ; when lifetimes and cosmos aligned and everything seemed possible. You suddenly aren’t afraid of asking Cat what’s been on your mind for years now—since something had shifted in your relationship, and everything fell out of whack.

 _Are we us again_?

You’re opening your mouth to ask her, but you’re interrupted by the loud and unnaturally high-pitched screech of Carter, “ _Mommy!”_ You need only glance over your shoulder for a second to see Clark hauling his younger brother over his shoulder and take off running in the opposite direction—toward the ice cream parlor and gift shops.

“Your well-spoken two year old is being offered in exchange for goods,” softly, carefully, fingers tracing over your cheeks, and down to cup the sides of your neck. “I believe I need to intervene.” You consider keeping her captive, keeping her here pressed against you, but your son screams again—laughing all the while—and you concede. Moving back one step, and accepting the kiss at the corner of your mouth—watching her walk away, you consider that sometimes it’s worth it with how she looks in those jeans.

She half-jogs toward the gift shop, disappearing behind the stream of people that pour out into the balmy twilight. You don’t realize you’re standing in the middle of the walk until one of the zoo’s trolley’s _beep beep_ you out of the way. Raising a hand and half-laughing, you watch it cart on by—a seemingly endless stream of carts full of people going out to the far off lots of the zoo. A bunch of children are crawling over their parents, trying to see out the side.

You end up just waving endlessly at all the children who want to say goodbye to strangers, still amazed at how _quick_ they’re flying by. _Beep be-beep_ , you hear the far off horn of the driver, now around the bend and too far away to clearly make it out. By the time all the carts are gone, you can’t spot Cat or the boys, so you turn around and lean on the railing, deciding to wait for them to return.

This side of the exhibit is nothing like the other side—where the Plexiglas seemed to be a slight invisible barrier between you and the large jungle cat. Carter had sat on your shoulders _thwack_ ing the glass heartily. You’d eventually convinced him to leave _his favorite part_ to go to the petting zoo, where he could personally terrorize animals—though you’d put Clark on monitoring duty. 

Clark had Carter on his shoulders, the little boy swayed and rocked like he was trying to dive bomb over the tiny wood fence and into the petting zoo. Little hands were knotted through dark strands, and you felt warm, and full, and happy—from the tips of your toes, to the top of your head. Cat was beside them, face contorted like she’d just stepped into a puddle of mud barefoot—hand extended so that a goat had been able to mush the pellets out of her palm. Clark was grinning, and Carter squealing in delight; you saw the small plastic bag of feed in a tiny hand that you’d bought when stepping into the gated off petting zoo.

“You have a beautiful family,” she’d been a matronly woman, her own bag of feed sitting beside her on the bench. She’d smiled kindly below the wide brim of her hat, something that would match perfectly for Sunday picnics and afternoons at the beach.

You turned to watch Clark put his brother carefully on the ground, but the boy seemed to have no regard for his own safety and churned his little legs until he hit the ground at a sprint, already chasing some poor goat.

“I do.”

Waiting for them now—you can only think how lucky you are.

“Kara!”

Whipping around you search for who was calling you—probably Cat coming to gloat. There’s a few straggling families walking toward the front gates, but none of them are looking in your direction. Children waving their over-priced light sticks, and bouncing happily with their brand new stuffed animals. The night sits heavy in the air, like a blanket covering everything—the hazy fog that always seems to creep up just after twilight, when that last promise of day had slipped away and left the world in the moon’s embrace.

Leaning back against the railing of the tiger exhibit, you watch the families—laughing, and so _alive_ —you need only spend a moment watching to remember _why_ you do what you do. _Why_ you done the black armor and concealing face mask—why _the Spectre_ even exists. Alex always asks that— _why_ —like she doesn’t save the world all on her own; like she can’t understand looking at these perfect smiles, and this bright happiness and think of all the horrible things that _could_ happen if you didn’t stop it.

“This isn’t—this isn’t guilt, right?” Alex had asked one night, when you’d been tired, and sore, and so close to burning out that you could _taste_ it on the back on your tongue. You’d wondered how long it had taken her to build up the courage to ask—if everything you’ve done, was some love letter to a dead world. A decade’s long apology for not being able to save _them_.

“Not guilt,” you remember saying, kicking off your boots, and stretching your toes out, “Just love.”

And like that—it was never mentioned again.

“Come on, Kara.” So much closer now, “come on!” Like it’s against the shell of your ear, you can _feel_ the warm breath fanning over your cheek, but when you look—there’s still no one. _Beep._ Digging your phone out of your pocket, already figuring it was Clark texting to gloat about whatever victory he was claiming—Cat was probably in on it. _Beep. Beep._

You’re staring at the screen, and there’s no notifications—no missed text messages, no missed calls. _Beep. Beep._ You’re staring at the screen goes black again, and your reflection is etched into the dark. The color of your face going waxy and pale, the hollows beneath your eyes dark and pronounced.

_Beep. Beep._

“You don’t get to—,” whatever the sentence they’re saying is, you feel it in your chest—like someone is pressing down on your ribs, over, and over, and over. “This—isn’t—how.” Over, and over, and over. You can only hold yourself up against the railing, pressing a hand to your clavicles, trying to stop the _pressure_ that’s building inside your lungs, threatening to bleed out violently into the rest of you. You can’t breathe, your fingers scrabble for purchase on your throat, like somehow you’ll find the phantom hands that are slowly choking the life from you. Everything is going black and hazy at the edge of your vision. 

 _Beep, be_ —. Then quiet.

“Clear!”

Everything seizes inside you, your bones rattle, and your blood sparks—you’re on the ground without remembering how you got there. You can’t breathe any easier, but now everything smells sharp and tastes like copper. Like you’ve bitten your tongue. Your face scrapes against the concrete, mouth gaping without accomplishing anything— _gasp, gasp_.

“Clear!”

The pain reverberates through you again, and you gasp—back arching like a drawn bow, your spine protesting, but there’s no other way for your body to move, no other way to ride through the jolts jittering along your suddenly sensitive nerve endings. _Gasp_. Blood pounding in your ears, throwing sound far away, like you’ve suddenly found yourself at the edge of a dark tunnel. Everything is tinny and distant, muffled by walls, and years, and whole solar systems.

 _Beep. Beep_.

Blinking your eyes open you can see only the dark of night above you, not a single star in the sky—just _black_. There’s no sound around you other than the nauseating _beep beep_ that’s been chasing you all day. You aren’t even trying to breathe anymore, it’s like you’ve finally given into everything you _can’t_ do right now. You can’t breathe, you can’t stop the jumping pressure on your chest— _crack_ , one broken rib, _crack_ , two—and you’re...alright with that. Why are you alright with that?

“The zoo’s closing,” Cat’s standing over you, her face neutral, eyes settled. It isn’t the girl you’d spent all day walking arm and arm with—she looks years older, the little crawls of age at the edge of her squinting eyes. The weight of her posture—she’s wearing a dark polo, and pants that would probably look more comfortable on Alex. _Tactical_ pants. It looks wrong, she looks pale—a shadow.

“I don’t want to leave.” You say, even though you can’t breathe—somehow the words don’t require air, they just fall out of your mouth.

“Too late.” It’s Clark—he’s standing just behind Cat, his arms crossed over his chest. His face is covered in soot, and there’s a bruise on his cheek, blood smeared on his face from temple to jaw on one side. He isn’t the teenager you’d been goading all day—he’s a man; tall, and broad, and wearing royal blue, the chest of your house emblazed upon his chest in gold. There’s the ripple of red behind him, a grand cape snapping in the sudden wind.

“Come on, sweet girl, come on.” The voice is wet, and cracking, so _afraid_ , and you can recognize it—almost—it’s familiar and you suddenly want to do whatever that voice asks. The repetitive pressure in your chest begins throbbing again—a rhythm easily found, and then there’s just a weight, like someone has laid across you, pinning you down. Just the sound of sobbing, desperate wails. Looking up, Cat and Clark are looking down at you—older, and harder, and sadder—and there’s a horrible pain.

Like someone’s punched you horribly hard in the chest.

“You’re already gone.” Its Carter now—so much older, a white shirt splashed red with blood.

And suddenly—you _gasp_.

* * *

_Gasp._

You lurch upright, everything screaming, eyes burning with the bright lights that are above you. There’s hands on your face, fingers combing into your hair, and you try to wrestle out of their hold, but for the first time in _forever_ , they’re too strong, and they manage your flailing hands easily, keeping them down and away.

“Shh, Kara,” the voice whispers, warm lips pressing against your temple, tears dripping down your cheek—tears that aren’t yours. Everything burns, and you can’t feel your hands, even though you _know_ they’re being held down by someone. “It’s okay now; I’ve got you.” You’re _cold_ , not realizing until that exact moment that your teeth are chattering together, but the warmth of a cheek pressed against yours starts to register, starts to calm the jackhammering beat of your heart.

 _Beep. Beep_.

You hear it now, so much clearer. The heart monitor just at the edge of the bed, attached to the little metal sensors stuck to your chest underneath the flimsy hospital gown that has been put on you. It is more a _chirp_ than a _beep_ , but you can hear everything mixed into it—text message notifications, beeping horns, zoo trolleys—all the miniscule little pieces of that memory that have been warped and dissected by your mind. It seems like a thousand years ago that you were walking through the zoo with your family—whole and happy—when you’d thought you’d hit the last bump in the road, that everything was mending and you finally had a _chance_.

But maybe what you’d told J’onn had been right; _maybe I’m just not supposed to be happy. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to leave Krypton_.

You can only see the crumbling buildings when you close your eyes _._ Can only see the shock of fear in the eyes of so many of Metropolis’ citizens, and the stubborn faith in Carter’s while he ignored the destruction and violence you’d caused around him, approaching you with a confident _mama_. Everything burns, and hurts, and you can’t breathe without having to try horribly hard, and you just can’t—you can’t—you don’t even know _what_.

“Is she—?” You can barely make out the curve of James Olsen against the bright lights—skin a dark blur, face open and fearful, his large hands spread like he could just simply grasp the problem and roll it to nothing between his palms. You’d always liked James—he’s a good friend to Clark, a good mentor. His shirt is rumpled, and his pants are covered in soot, little specks of dry wall still drifting off him when he steps further into the room.

“We got her back,” its _Alex_ whose voice had snuck into your unconscious mind and hooked you; her warm hands still stroking over the curve of your cheek and into your hair. She handles you like you’re precious and delicate, something to be careful with. She sounds so _relieved_ and you want to sob, because no one should be glad to see you—not after what you did. No one should curl themselves around you like she is right now—arms secure, chest firm, heart strong.

“What happened?” It isn’t James or Alex who asks this—it’s _Winn_ , the ‘cardigan hobbit’ that Cat pretends she doesn’t _accidentally_ have lunch with every few weeks so they can awkwardly and casually catch up. It is quite possibly the oddest friendship you’ve ever seen, but you know it somehow makes them both happy. They pretend that they aren’t _friends_ because that would just be ridiculous, and it isn’t worth it—but you never mention that somehow Winn always has a ticket to CatCo’s best events, and any IT request that is even vaguely hinted at being for Cat gets fast-tracked—and there was that year of the mysterious Lord of the Rings limited edition set memorabilia, to both of them.

“We have no idea; from what our scientists can extrapolate; National City just started to…vibrate.”

You can’t talk because there’s an oxygen mask over your nose and mouth, forcing air into your lungs, which is very helpful considering it is impossible to breathe without the assistance. You’re crying now, because the feelings that had been kept at bay have begun to flood in—pouring into you without consideration for whether or not you want them. The pain is physical; everything throbs and cracks and aches, but worse than that—worse than the brittle bones and cloying blood in your veins—is the emotional pain.

The guilt, and horror, and hatred for what you’d done—it digs into you, and hollows you out, carving piece after piece after piece away until you’re just left with craters inside that have no hope of being filled with anything but disgust. Maybe it’s the device’s energy still splitting through your atoms, but you can _feel_ how the air vibrates differently, you can feel it like a blanket resting on your base skin. Pressing down gently—negligible, but unmistakably there.

You know this isn't your National City.

If you just keep your eyes closed, if you just drift off, maybe you can return to that memory—of that family trip to the zoo, right before everything crumbled and crashed. Before Carter grew up without you, and Cat grew cold without you—before everything was _ruined_. You want to return to the outside of that tiger exhibit and feel Cat’s soft lips against yours, feel her pressed into you without question, without reproach. The scientist in you won’t let you ignore the facts—that your brain had been dying without oxygen, that it was flooding your system with endorphins, it was coaxing you alive, hoping for a response.

But your heart? Your heart cries, and sobs, and needs that promise of happiness; especially now that you don’t deserve it.

And like the crash of a judge’s gavel, Alex speaks, “Something’s wrong.”


	52. snap shot 52. ( 5, 17, 19 )

**SNAP SHOT (MARION)**. _College is one of those things that you imagined a lot when you were younger; it was a fantastical kind of freedom that you couldn't really put into words until you'd started getting acceptance letters from colleges. Nothing terribly prestigious, but still; this was your road to the rest of your life. Cheesy, but true_.

* * *

“She’ll call.” You don’t know why you bother, because your roommate is completely ensconced in the quart of rocky road ice cream that she’d pilfered from the stoners at the end of the hall. She’s collapsed into the half-broken futon couch in the living room, sprawling in a way that _has_ to be uncomfortable—she’s all twisted and limp, spoon now churning through half melted ice cream like it hold all the answers to the questions she wants to ask. You’re sitting in the most uncomfortable bean bag chair you’ve even had the misfortune of sitting in; a gift from some well-meaning ex-boyfriend, who probably really deserved the _ex_.

“I don’t care,” Cat lies.

You sigh, “Stop it. You care.”

“I don’t,” she continues, letting go and allowing her spoon sink into the cold soup of rocky road as she turns over to stare up on the ceiling, one arm draped over her forehead, the other on her stomach. You can practically _taste_ the melodrama in the air. “Not even a little.” She’s been like this for the past hour; dressed to the nines, hair done, and waiting. Because her date—who was supposed to whisk her away—never showed up, and never called.

“I don’t believe you,” goading her has helped, it had dragged her back from her imminent wallowing just a little.

“But you _do_ believe that knocking on wood cancels out _bad juju_ —so excuse me for finding fault in your scale of belief.” Oh, she’s getting snarky. That’s a good sign. Its leagues better than the abject sighing that had taken place for the last twenty minutes. There was even some sarcastic air quotes—net positive. “We should go out—me and you.”

Yeah—no.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, standing up from—struggling out of, really—the bean bag chair, and placing hands on hips. “Not all of us are dressed to fucking kill, alright?” Your hair is still knotted from your run, you’ve washed your make up off ages ago, and the baggy shorts and shirt combination won’t be knocking anyone out of their socks anytime soon.

Cat on the other hand is _stunning_ ; you’re comfortable enough in your heterosexuality to know she’s _banging_ —if you were going to pull an Ellen, it’d be with someone like Cat Grant. Hair curled and set, just loose enough to seem wild and untamed, even though you _know_ half a bottle of hair spray had been involved. The slate gray dress wraps and clings and curls, and there’s enough skin on displace to make a nun blush—a tad too much thigh for your taste, but the tasteful amount of cleavage was positively inspired.

“Come on, we don’t have to go anywhere extravagant; just the bar on campus, or even that cesspool that Max is always going on about.” _Davy’s_ was the bar just inside town that the few brave fraternities use as a meet up spot—there was usually enough douches present to stock a gynecologist’s office—and that was putting it mildly. Cat’s sitting up now, hair falling back into place carefully and without any prompting. You wished your own curls would manage the same without such a struggle.

“ _You_ want to go to Davy’s?” You stress, because this is _unprecedented_.

“I want to go somewhere—anywhere.”

You’re sure there’s something in the roommate code that says it’s your responsibility to make sure she feels better about tonight—that you should take her out, and buy her a beer, and let her _vent_. But the problem is, she doesn’t vent—she wallows, and sighs, and then makes moon eyes at the damned door. You like Cat; you’ve only known her for a semester, but she has a good head on her shoulders, and doesn’t blast music at obscene hours in the morning. You even like her girlfriend—the whip thin blonde that flits in and out like she’s infinitely nervous, and impossibly confident at the same time. A real impressive feat.

You like her a little less right now, but still.

“Fine,” you give in; you’re a damned pushover, “But you’re buying me a beer, and if any guys hit on me, we are sweet sweet lesbian lovers. The fucking U-Haul’s parked outside type lesbians, _capisce_?” Because you’ll go, you’ll talk, and maybe even have a good time—but you will not dodge frat boys all night. Cat brightens, and you feel better for making her feel better—having friends is really inconvenient sometimes. She attempts to let you borrow a dress, but anything that looks good on her, will look horribly slutty on you, and to boot you aren’t looking for that kind of attention—so you settle for a snug set of jeans, and a UNC polo.

The walk across campus is harsh, the wind picking up whenever you step out from behind one of the buildings, it snarls your hair even more than it already was and your cheeks flush. Cat wobbles every little while on her heels, and you wonder if she pre-gamed while you were getting dressed; if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Cat Grant, it is that she holds her liquor like it’s her damned job.

 _Davy’s_ is all manner of unpleasant; it’s the type of dive you’d imagine to read about in modern gothic fantasy. Smoked out windows, and screw eyed townies glowering from behind chunky mugs and sweating beer bottles; they try to tuck themselves away into corners to avoid the polo wearing fraternity brothers that plague them at all hours. It’s a Saturday night, so you aren’t surprised to see Maxwell Lorde holding court at the darts board, his damned popped collar and khaki shorts—despite the fact that it is almost freezing outside—all he’s missing is a backward cap and sunglasses, and he’d be a walking stereotype.

“Maybe we can buy a handl—,” but Cat is already heading to the bar, hips swaying and chin up—sighing, you walk after her and sit down at the stool _furthest_ from Max. The idiot is just finishing his beer, swigging the last few drops, before walking over and leaning both elbows on the counter, smirking widely at Cat.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he coos, eyebrows perking.

“It certainly wasn’t wit and creativity—because you’re clearly lacking in both,” she drawls, and you sigh _again_ , because listening to them argue got old weeks ago.

Max grins—Cat smiles—and you don’t speak this sub-language of barbed insults that they seem to be fluent in. “All dressed up and no place to go?” He asks, holding up three fingers for the bartender who doesn’t break stride to pop them open and put them on the counter.

Cat sneers, turning the cold beer in front of her around—and around—and around, before stopping and turning to face Max fully. “Are you here to pre-game an Aeropostel sale?”

You’re half finished with your beer, “I can’t tell if you guys want to fight, or fuck.”

“Fight,” Cat says.

At the same time Max says, “Fuck.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn away from their progressively worsening bickering—there’s an _ow_ as Max is punched, and a _hey_ as a slosh of beer is spilled on slate gray fabric. The divide in the room is clear; hunched townies holding hushed conversations over domestic beers, trying to ignore the copious amounts of _dudes_ being thrown around. Its moments like these that make you want to write—that make you think up characters and plots, and spin them all together. Your creative writing professor told you that stories can be found anywhere—even disgusting bars at the edge of sane society.

You can picture the story now.

The struggling townie with a heart of gold, and a chip on their shoulder a country mile wide—they have that good ol’ type of smile, and say _ma’am_ without prompting. And the city raised tornado that blows into town with a sharp wit and a sharper heel. Their unlikely romance balanced on the needle’s tip—two worlds colliding, and not always agreeing much on how everything should settle. In the end—in the end—

Kara walks in.

You can see her easily enough, how she goes out of her way to avoid walking into people, that it’s almost comical, how she apologizes and keeps doing it until people turn to walk away. She’s wearing a button down shirt that’s soaked through—it must’ve started raining at some point. Her hands are up, like she’s constantly warding people away, afraid of being knocked down, and when she smiles at the townies—they smile back.

A good ol’ type of smile.

You can pin point the _exact_ moment that she sees Cat—the way her face goes slack, her eyes widen, and then she looks downright _besotted._ Swiping hair back behind her ears, she clenches her jaw and hesitates—you’re afraid that she might turn around and walk out the door and back into the rain. Before she’s given too much time to reconsider seeking Cat out, you push off the bar and weave through the crowd so that you can catch her by the elbow—she’s half way through an _I’m sorry_ when she recognizes you.

“Where do you think you’re going, Cal?” You tease, grinning wide because you’ve had two beers and you’re amidst your story—you just need to get your struggling townie to go confront her tornado. “She missed you tonight.”

“I missed her,” she says like she can’t help it, hopelessly devoted as she is. You see the smudge of dirt at her jaw, the scent of sea water and gasoline clinging to her like she’d rolled around in a cracked oil tanker. “Someone said they saw her walking here.” If looks could kill, every frat boy near Cat would be a pile of ashes on the ground—for such a sweet face, she glares like it’s a degree she wants to major in.

“Wallowing and eating her weight in ice cream lost its appeal fast,” sighing, you tug her to follow, but she’s resolute—standing her ground, and she doesn’t even _budge_. “Go say you’re sorry; I haven’t been nauseated by how adorable you two are today. I’m going into withdrawal.” She inhales like a soldier getting ready for war, and it’s downright adorable when she squares her shoulders and walks up to the bar like a woman on a mission. You follow behind at a more sedate speed, and are stationed just on her other side when she gathers the courage.

“This seat taken?” Her voice cracks, and Cat’s facing away.

So she doesn’t realize who she’s answering, “As a matter of fact, it is.”

Kara tries again, “I don’t think she’ll mind if I borrow it.”

Oblivious, still, “Listen, I don’t know what you are hoping to acc—,” Cat spins around, and her eyes widen slightly—and then narrow. You see Cat’s nostrils flare as she rearranges herself so that she can properly glower—lips pinched together, finger tapping on the neck of her beer bottle. Max is finally showing some brain and hasn’t inserted himself into the pending argument—he’s downing the rest of his beer like there’s something impressive to be found at the bottom.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Cat says, haughty and light, taking a deliberate sip of her beer.

“Cat,” Kara hedges, rolling shoulders to unstick the wet shirt from her skin—it’s nearly see through, and you didn’t need to know what color bra she was wearing, or that she had unfairly impressive abdominal muscles.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she says again, eyebrows doing that _thing_ they do when she’s trying not to be particularly expressive—it really just makes her look worried. Which is probably the look she’s trying to keep off her face—the whole time she’d been moping, Cat had interspersed the hour with terse _do you think she’s alight_ s, clearly thinking the worst.

“Fine,” Kara relents, turning to lean against the bar, arms crossed over her stomach, lips pinched, “We don’t have to talk.” And just stands there, foot on the rung of the stool, back against the counter. The frat boys are chanting in the back, and Max has taken that as his cue to excuse himself—you wished you could claim being needed elsewhere, but you’d come here with Cat, and you’d brought Kara over.

“So,” you begin, exhaling with effort, “It started to rain, huh?”

Kara blinks, and Cat glares.

 _Not talking_ lasted all of five minutes.

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” you hear, so quiet you think you’re making it up, but you can see Kara out of the corner of your eye. She’s facing straight ahead, but her eyes are slanted toward Cat, “Something came up, and it wasn’t until I was in the middle of it that I realized my phone had gotten—.” There’s a clipped ending, but from a pocket is produced a sodden mobile phone. The screen is slightly warped, and all the pixels are shot—you can tell that with only half looking. “—a little wet.”

Cat doesn’t respond, not right away, but she’s not glaring as harshly, and her shoulders have relaxed a little.

“You look beautiful,” Kara says, leaving the sad pieces of technology on the counter and turning to lean toward Cat, “Whoever stood you up is a big idiot.” She’s blinking more, and sighing less, “The _biggest_. So big it’s probably a little impressive how stupid they are.” God, they’re disgusting. Cat’s trying not to smile, and you’ll give her an _A_ for effort, but she has that little twitch in her cheek that gives her away.

“Where were you?” She asks finally, slowly and with begrudging pauses.

“Mister Callaghan’s water heater got a little ornery,” Kara explains, “I had to get as many boxes out of the basement as possible before they got ruined.” You’re pretty sure _mister Callaghan_ is Kara’s grandfather, but she’s always only called him _mister Callaghan_ —which, alright, is a little weird, but who’re you to judge? You glance at your watch, impressed it took them almost ten minutes to make you nauseous.

The static ridden television in the corner is silently telling a news story about some oil tanker that was somehow encased in ice just as it burst open—saving the harbor from an Eco-disaster. Beside the silent footage of dock workers, is a grainy image of a black silhouette; it’s all properly Hitchcockian. Dramatic, mysterious, and utterly unhelpful. The words _nameless hero_ are emphasized, but then the clock strikes the next hour and some new story is garnering it’s fifteen minutes of fame.

Beside you they’re talking quietly, enough so that you can’t hear them over the murmur of the crowd—Cat still looks a little irked, but she’s smiling. Kara keeps waving off the bartender—apparently the only person concerned with underage drinking in the whole damned building. Kara’s leaning a forearm on the bar, her elbow crooked, finger twirling in Cat’s hair—it’s fucking adorable. Sighing, you drink the last of your beer, planning to go find Max and beat him at darts. The damned frat boy never learns.

Just as your about to lean over the bar to flag down the bartender, Cat’s stepping in front of you with a bottle in either hand, smile in place. You’re glad, it just doesn’t look right when she mopes—anger, you can appreciate, happiness, even better; but misery? No thank you.

“I promised to get you a beer,” she say, just loud enough that you can hear her, and when she presses it into your hands, she surprises you with a hug—it’s slanted, and awkward, and she doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands, which is perfectly alright because you have no idea where to put _yours_. “Thanks, Mar.” She says into your shoulder, and pulls back just enough for you to see she’s embarrassed—eyes down, half turned away.

“No worries, I’m just glad you two are—,” _being disgustingly cute again_ , doesn’t seem the right thing to say—so you just wave vaguely and raise the beer for cheers, stepping away.

“You don’t have to leave,” Kara tries, and Cat looks like she’s going to agree, and you know where she’s going with this.

“No, no. You two—do whatever you two do when the sock's on the door; preferably not in public, but hey, you crazy kids.” Another step away, “I’m going to go find Max—he can be my sweet sweet lesbian lover for the night; Lord knows he looks like Ellen DeGeneres with those frosted tips.” Pause, “no pun intended.”

Smile, pivot, and retreat.

The things you do for love—and it isn’t even yours.


	53. snap shot 53. ( -, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT (KARA DANVERS)**. _This world is so similar to yours that sometimes when you look out the window you don't remember that you're supposed to be missing him. It's the people that are wrong—no, not wrong—different. You see it in the very shade of their eyes, and you want to pain the differences. Try to really pin point every miniscule change. Because the small things like that are easy to focus on; safer to focus on._

* * *

Even a week later all the news can cover is the destruction of downtown Metropolis; the cleanup crews, the emergency services, all the people who are willing to reach out and lend a helping hand. There’s vigils and memorials, and with every face and name that scrolls across the screen, you feel a little sicker, because you should be out there. You should be helping. Instead, you’re locked away in a penthouse feeling sorry for yourself—no, worse, you’re burning with an anger for a version of yourself you’ve only ever seen in footage.

Side by side with the coverage of the recovery efforts, are documentaries dedicated to the rise and fall of National City’s former hero _the Spectre_. From the grainiest pictures of a young vigilante wrapped in store-bought sweatshirts and scarves—it’s hard not to notice the difference when the image is set side by side to the force of destruction that had plagued Metropolis last week. Glinting metal, charcoal gray mesh, the bright slant of lights. There’s dates on each picture slotted across the screen—it eclipses nearly thirty years.

How does something like this happen?

“You’re not her.”

Spinning around, you didn’t hear anyone walking in, didn’t hear the door or the elevator. Carter Grant—a _much older_ Carter Grant—is standing in the doorway with shoulders slumped, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt. His hair is messy and carefully tousled, styled out to the side like it was wind swept and just ended up that way. He’s tall, you didn’t think he’d be _so tall_ when he grew up—considering his mother isn’t exactly the optimum of height. You’d seen him every once in awhile, when he drifted in from wherever he spent most of his days—CatCo, school, Alex’s, _away from you_ —but much like his mother, he’d tried to limit his interaction with you.

You don’t know why that _hurts_.

But it does.

“Aren’t I?” Because when you see her face, it’s _your_ face; slightly older, and slightly harder, but there’s no mistaking the resemblance. Same blue eyes, same blonde hair—no, that isn’t right, _her_ hair is more gold, more like the sun, maybe because she’d been here for _decades_ longer—Earth’s young sun stealing the last hints of Krypton’s red dwarf from her strands.

“Nope,” he says while walking into the room, staying away and toward the wall.

“That’s it? Just—nope?”

“Yep,” he says, almost smiling.

“Where’s Miss Gr—your mom?”

“Around,” his hands are out of his pockets but he’s carelessly tilting the picture frames on the walls—pictures that _boggle_ your mind. Clark and Carter—Cat and Clark and Carter—Clark and _her_ —an elderly man and _her_ and a boy—Cat and _her_. There’s marks on the wall like pictures have been removed but not many—only five or six. “She likes to stay busy when she’s fighting her worst impulses.”

“Worst impulses?”

“Taking over the world, making the masses bow—you know, the usual.” He’s watching you with eyes that are exactly like Cat’s—not in color, no, they’re very blue—but they _are_ considering and quiet. The lull in them exactly like your boss’s before she decided enough was enough. You don’t know if he has Cat Grant’s spitting fire, but he has enough of her that you’re looking for the signs. Signs that you’ve gotten _very_ good at noticing over the last two and a half years.

You’re _almost_ smiling. “That isn’t funny.”

“It was, a little.” His eyebrows perk _a little_.

You don’t want to ask him _why now_ , after a week of avoidance, because you don’t want to be left alone, and you realize it doesn’t matter why he’s suddenly decided to talk to you. Because—because he could decide he doesn’t want to anymore, and it would break you for that to happen.

“I’m sorry you’re cooped up here,” there’s something in the way he shuffles his sneakers and slouches his shoulders that reminds you of thirteen year old Carter Grant form _your_ world. “I know it can’t be too fun.”

“Not really,” you agree, because honesty is the best policy.

He just smiles, and it’s understanding, and collected, and it makes him look older—which is _insane_ , because Carter Grant is supposed to be thirteen years old, not seventeen. “Clark was going to have you stay with him, but mom wouldn’t have it.” He offers, and slouches closer, his posturing seeming to degrade the longer he’s here—slanted shoulders, curved spine, hands tucked in dipping pockets.

But you’re snared by something he’s said—Cat wanted you here? You haven’t seen her since you found them a week ago, since Alex had tried to explain, and Hank had kept you present—the Grants has walked into the other room, Cat laughing, and Carter frowning. You hear her coming home after midnight, feet near stumbling, and the scent of alcohol heavy in the air as she walks past the guest room to her bedroom—she mumbles to herself, and you want to open the door and see her. You want to do _something_ , because the air is heavy and thick and hurtful, and you don’t want to cause that.

You don’t.

“Why—no, that can’t be right,” you try, “you mom doesn’t want anything to do with me.” It’s _obvious_.

Right?

“She wants you close, Kara,” he says, shrugging in a way you know Cat must hate, “not across the country feeling guilty about something you didn’t do.”

Your eyes cut back to the television—as _the Spectre_ ’s eyes brighten red and flash across the screen, cutting through a building until it crumbles in on itself. Superman crashes into them and they spiral into a small park that is already a pile of churned earth. “I was infected once too,” you confide, because Carter’s face is open and kind, and his eyes feel like _home_.

“So you understand,” it feels like a statement, but somehow it lifts at the end like a question.

“I just—I wanted to be powerful, and I mean—I scared everyone, and said things I wish I didn’t but,” here you pause, because he’s watching the television too, and you can only hear how his voice had cracked just before you’d arrived— _we left her_. “I didn’t—do this.”

You feel the anger sometimes, down below everything else, but it’s so easy to keep it there. Most of the time. You know it’s because of your family, and your friends, and you try to imagine not having them. It doesn’t fit—not exactly, because everyone’s here. Clark and Alex, Winn and James—Cat and Carter.

“She just wanted to stop feeling lost.” He supplies, sitting down on the arm of the couch with a _thud_ , and he holds his jacket closed with hands in the pockets.

“How—how does _this_ ,” you gesture empathically to the crumbling city on the screen, “have _anything_ to do with that?”

Carter shrugs again, like he doesn’t have the exact words to explain himself, so he’ll say nothing on the matter. But then something in his eyes dulls, just at the edges of the blue—but you see how it glosses over and goes opaque, before he’s blinking it away. “Someone knew who was important to Superman, knew that the way to get to him was to take Lois Lane. So they did—when Kara was getting hit with that—that _disease_ —a group of a dozen soldiers were breaking down her door.”

You gasp, leaning forward with eyes wide.

“I was with her because I was waiting for Clark to get home from work—we were going to take him out to dinner because of a story he’d gotten published earlier in the week. Sniped right out from under mom’s nose—she couldn’t have been prouder. But then the door was breaking in, and there was gas in the room, and I passed out.” He’s retelling the story like he wasn’t part of it—like you can’t hear how his heart starts to jump faster and harder in his chest—like you can’t hear the creak of his bones as his fingers balled into fists in his pockets.

“I wish I could say I tried to help escape—but Lois was already spitting mad by the time I woke up.” Carter raises a hand to touch the edges of the socket of his eye, “they’d already—already hit her a few times to try and get her to stop, but you know Lois, it just made her louder.” Yes, you can imagine it perfectly—because _that_ hasn’t changed with this new universe. Lois Lane does not take injustice lying down; she yells, and threatens, and cajoles.

“I—Kara was there so quickly. It was like all the sound drained away, and then was punched back into the room all at once. She killed them all—tore through the wall with just her hands, and Lois kept telling me to close my eyes—that I shouldn’t see my _mo_ —shouldn’t see someone I knew do this.” He pauses, only a second, “But I watched.”

His bones rattle with the shake of his fists, but his face isn’t angry—it isn’t much of anything—his eyes have rolled up and you see how they flicker and shift. It is a constant shift, as if he’s counting something—looking up you see the nearly unnoticeable pattern on the ceiling. You hear how his heart settles a little, slows—even if it’s still too fast—and then he’s looking at you again.

“I watched, and I can’t unsee what she did but that’s how I can tell you it wasn’t _her_.” His hands emerge, and there isn’t a shake in them, they’re just spread like he’s trying to show you something—empty palms, and extended fingers. “We all have our worst selves, but they’re tempered by everything else. She didn’t—there was nothing else to stop her. And when they were dead, and Lois was getting us free, do you know what she was saying?”

You shake your head, murmuring a quiet, “no.”

“She was talking about Krypton—about how it was still out there somewhere, and she just had to _find it_. She could save so many people—including her family—she just had to figure it out.” He slumps, hands now slouched over his knees, “that was her worst self—she was trying to save a whole planet. She just didn’t—she didn’t have that part that could weigh the pros and cons. That which doesn’t make every decisions an end that justifies the means. She was lost, and angry, and trying to save people—including me—and when Superman got in the way. Well. She has a temper, she always has.”

He’s seventeen—he’s _seventeen_ —and he’s explaining away homicide, he’s justifying destruction, even if he isn’t condoning it. He’s bright blue eyes, and curly hair, and you see so much depth and maturity, and he doesn’t seem at all like the Carter Grant you know—he’s hard at his edges, to hide away his brittle heart. He’s his mother’s son, and you don’t even know the whole of it, and you want to protect him. Want to tell him it isn’t his job to justify your doppelganger’s actions, he’s not responsible, even if he was the reason she’d broken free.

“Carter,” you say, because you can’t _not_ say anything, “having a temper isn’t justification!” You don’t mean to yell, but your volume is raising—because _you_ have a temper, you always have. And you don’t want that to be something the Carter from your world will understand in four years. You don’t want him to shrug and blink past the horror because—because, well, _she has a temper_.

“Not a justification,” he responds, “a reason.”

“It’s a bad reason.”

“But still one.” He slumps sideways, and slides into a sitting position on the couch, his jacket and clothes all slightly askew, but he’s smiling like his eyes hadn’t been darker and darker still only moments ago. “Reasons don’t have the luxury of always being good. Sometimes they’re bad. My reason for not eating peas is because there’s a boy in my class with the middle name _Knife-fight_ and mine isn’t nearly as cool.” He’s smiling like he’s trying to physically pull one out of you, and you can’t help mirroring it—this wasn’t supposed to get depressing, it wasn’t supposed to make your bones heavy and your heart hurt.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Carter shrugs, the lethargic lopping one that you know he didn’t get from his mother.

He doesn’t get much more of a chance to casually brush aside horrible scenarios, because the front door in creaking open, and slamming abruptly. You watch as Cat Grant sashays past the walk of a woman with a goal—you sink a little further in your chair, hoping that she doesn’t notice you—she’s done a pretty good job so far—but Carter’s here, and she always notices Carter. Green eyes swivel in your direction, and heat when they land on your—burning for a moment—before turning to her son.

“You’re home early,” she says, smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, even as she bends down ot kiss the top of his head. She glances once more at you, a sharp hard look, before turning on her ridiculous heel and walking off down the hall.

“I’ll be right back,” he says sourly, before jumping to his feet and chasing his mother down the hall—chewing the distance easily with his much larger strides.

The door _rattles_ when it’s slammed shut behind them.

“No,” Carter says, voice still near a whisper, “You don’t get to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Bullshit!” You _wince_ at the curse, because it’s said with all the emphasis of someone who doesn’t say them often—or at all—you try not to listen to what is supposed to be a private conversation, but their words breathe through the air. Jumping from molecule to molecule until you can only watch the clouds out the living room window.

“You will mind yourself, mister. I will not have you speaking to me in that tone—or with that language.” Cat’s angry, you can pick it out of every syllable, every _letter_ , but it’s that hot anger that’s leagues better than the cold fury she has the ability to tip into.

A deep sigh.

“I’m sorry, mom; I am.” In through the nose, out through the mouth. “You can’t keep treating her like this.”

“I’m—,” she starts to say, but is cut off.

“This isn’t her fault—she didn’t do this.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Cat dismisses as you listen to the _creak_ of steps across what is apparently a tender spot in the flooring. They’re both moving, pacing back and forth, and you can imagine it clearly—the agitation that must live in their genetics.

“Then why do you hate her?” He asks eventually, shattering the silence, stopping their mutual steps.

“I don’t hate her.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

They’re volleying comments back and forth quick enough that you can barely follow what they’re trying to say to each other. Their volume is getting louder, and the creak in the floor continues—they must be across the room, must be arguing from opposite corners.

“Maybe if you actually acknowledged her that would mean something.” Carter’s getting snarky, and his _Grant-ness_ is shining through. You didn’t imagine that he’d be a handful when he grew into a teenager, but he’s tall, and broad, and sure of himself.

“So, do I hate her or am I ignoring her. Pick your argument, Carter.”

There’s silence, a disquieting silence.

And then a soft, “It’s the same thing, mom.”

You can hear her long drawn out sigh, and then there’s a few words that are so quiet even you can’t hear them. The door to Carter’s room opens and Cat walks out, she’s now sans her heels, and she is walking—in your direction. She’s not looking at you, but she’s definitely walking into the living room, and you can only dart glances at Carter who’s slinging a bag over his shoulder in the hall. He gives you two big thumbs up and then he does the worst thing he could do—

He leaves.

And now you’re just—alone with Cat Grant.

You can hear the clock in the kitchen in the silence. Cat’s finally settled in her chair, and she’s watching you bonelessly with a veiled interest and an almost _smarmy_ quirk of the eyebrow. It is obvious that she isn’t going to break first, and you want to bring Carter back and make him stay for this awkward silence. You feel the words bubbling at the back of your tongue, and you hold them for about ten minutes longer than you thought you would—before you say the first thing on your mind.

“I mean—it has to mean something,” you can’t help the hesitance, because she’s watching you with pupil blown eyes, you can smell the alcohol on her breath from even this far away. “That we know each other—in my…world, and this one—yours.”

“Know each other,” Cat repeats, like she’s amused, it’s slow and mulling, but she tips back her tumbler for another sip. “What am I to you?”

“You, oh—we haven’t really—,”

“In _your_ world; what am I to you? Who is Cat Grant to you?” She’s…tired, and she sounds it. Like she’s finally given up trying to say she’s alright, and she’s stopped pretending that she doesn’t ache, and that whatever weight she’s been lugging around all week on her shoulders hasn’t threatened to snap her spine with every step. Inside you’re _bursting_ to help—because that’s what you do, you make Cat’s life easier, you fit all the pieces together so that she has to spent even a second less time worrying about the things she can’t help worrying about.

“She’s—,” you go through nearly half a dozen words in your mind—boss, mentor, hero, inspiration, critic—before you finally answer, “She’s my friend.”

“Your friend? Well, isn’t that just special?” Cat’s eyebrows lift mockingly before she finishes her glass, the ice cubes clink and settle as she moves to get up—but you’re already on your feet. Taking the glass from her hand with little fanfare because this is something you know how to do—this is something you _can_ do. Her wet bar is more elaborate than you’re used to, but even through the decanter top, you can smell the whiskey that your boss prefers—expensive, aged, and smooth.

Filling her glass, you inhale and walk back over, trying to calm the sudden acceleration of your heart. It’s thumping in your throat, and pounding in your chest, and you can’t say exactly why.

“It is.” You say with meaning—with _weight_ —and hold her eyes. She’s considering you, and when you hand her the glass, she doesn’t say thank you—not exactly—but she does tip her head back against the headrest and close her eyes.

“You want to say more,”

“No,” you blink, “I—no.”

“I recognize that look on your face.” She demurs, the hand holding her glass gestures in your direction—a single finger extended to point at you accusingly, “Don’t worry, Miss Danvers, I won’t tell her.” She says it like it’s a hilarious joke, like you should be bent over laughing hysterically—but then like someone’s pulled the blinds closed, her eyes darken, and her lips slip into a neat pressed line instead of her exaggerated smile.

“I—she’s more than a friend.” You go through the list again—boss, mentor, hero, inspiration, critic—and you wish there was some word that could easily encompass them all. “She—believes in me, and forgives me.”

“And don’t your friends believe and forgive you?” Her delivery is dry, it is always _dry_ , more so than the Cat you spent over two years tending too. Your Cat—no, _that_ Cat, not _your_ Cat—was bitter, and electric, and passionate, and so many other things. This one lingers at the edge of nowhere, at the corner of nothing—Carter makes her eyes brighten, and when she sees you they spark for a moment before the emotion simmers and fades away. Evaporating like it had never been there.

“It’s—different,” you can’t explain, you wish you could. “I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s different.”

“Carter tells me you’re a writer,” it seems like a non-sequitur.

But you correct her immediately, “editor.”

“Then you must know how to use your words,” a long drawn out gulp of aged whiskey, her lips are wet and her teeth brilliantly white as she grins at you—like a panther might bare it’s teeth at a cornered deer. “So use them.”

“She—she. She makes me think things are possible,”

“What kind of things? Dragons? Unicorns?”

“No, nothing—nothing like that. She makes it easier to believe in myself because—well, because she believes in me.” It seems silly now that you’re saying it out loud, but Cat doesn’t seem at all bothered by the pronouncement. She’s rolling the remaining whiskey around her glass, and the _clink clink_ of ice is almost hypnotic.

She’s watching you like you’ve done something interesting, and you don’t like the feeling—cool green eyes, a half-open mouth--like there’s a word settled on her tongue, but she isn’t saying it. Just the _clink clink_ of her ice as the glass rotates around her fingers. 

She’s looking at you like she wants to say something, but she won’t, you know she won’t, and that means that you don’t know what to do with this moment. “You must think a lot of her.”

“She’s amazing.”

She doesn’t _smile_ but her eyes squint slightly, and the green glitters with a little more mirth than you’ve seen in her up until this point. She considers you with that squinting happiness for a moment before she exhales and her frame goes a little less rigid—you hadn’t even _realized_ how harshly she was holding herself until she suddenly _isn’t_ anymore.

“Down girl,” she murmurs, “you might’ve strained something answering so quickly.”

You redden and look away from her canary killing grin—wide, and so sudden, you swear you can see the feathers stuck between her teeth. She’s poured into her chair, elbows balancing the careful slide of her body as she lifts an ankle to hook a knee over the opposite, bare foot bouncing between you. She’s completely at ease, but you wished you could read what was happening behind her eyes. They’re glittering gems that keep you out and away; casting false shadows along the rest of her face. Masking the shadows under them, and the pallor you’re _almost_ positive you see.

It’s disconcerting.

“Do you have someone?”

“To do my taxes, drive me to the movies, clean the house,” she drawls— _clink clink_ —and inhales another long moment of alcohol, “You have to be more specific.”

“That believes in you,” you exhale the words, and they kind of jumble and mix, “Do you have someone that believes in you—like that.”

“I have children, they’re almost disgusting in how full of belief they are.”

You smile wide because this was always the Cat you adored most—the mother. It softens her in ways nothing else seems capable of; it strips away the façade, and the armor, and the masks and leaves someone so beautiful underneath. The first time you’d met Carter, he’d just been an eleven year old boy who seemed lost in the lobby, he’d said his mother worked on the news floor and the two men escorting him inside had recognized her and left him in her care. He’s been withdrawn and quiet, hands clutching the straps of his backpack until the elevator door had opened and he’d gone bolting out.

You’d tried to reel him in, saying that _miss grant doesn’t like_ —but you haven’t even been able to finish the _thought_ before your boss was scoping the small boy up into her arms. It had been almost comical because Cat Grant wasn’t a large woman, and the boy—while small for his age—was nearly her height. But that hadn’t seemed to matter, she clutched him against her and smoothed fingers through his hair, asking him how his day had been. _How was your new school, sweetheart_? That had been what she asked. And he’d answered, curling his smaller hand into hers and following into the glass encased office—no one seemed startled, no one glanced up, because _apparently_ , this was common.

This Cat seems to hold that same swelling affection inside her for her children, the harsh lines of her nearly predatory smile smoothed and faded, leaving something much more genuine in its place. Glancing to your right, you can see the glinting glass of the pictures in the hallway—you wonder why she doesn’t have any of Adam. Maybe she just assumes you know, because the Kara from this world does. There’s a niggling feeling in your chest that makes you uncomfortable—a tightness you aren’t prepared for, but don’t know what to do with.

“How is Adam?” You ask, trying to shake that feeling from your chest, the _throb clench_ that seems to linger too close to your heart. It only gets worse when Cat tips her head slight, smile fading as confusion floods into her eyes.

“Adam?”

 _Clink clink_ , she shifts forward slightly, and you shift back, because you feel like you’ve made a misstep. It’s in the way her weight in on the balls of her hands, and not the delicate balance of her elbows, in how her lefts have uncrossed and both feet are on the ground. You swallow, and lean back in your chair fully, pretending like you can’t feel the _shift_ in the room—you want to run, as you often do, but you know you can’t.

“Nevermind,” you say quickly, trying to douse the flicker of fire in her eyes.

“No, no,” she intones quietly, “you brought up this Adam when I mentioned having children—you’ve obviously met Carter, he’s made himself abundantly noticed as of recently. So.” You swallow, and her eyes shutter, but her smile is a savage slash of charm, and you know this is how those who’ve been interviewed by _this_ Cat Grant feel. It’s a completely unique feeling. “Adam is my son; in your world.”

The deduction is clinical, and she seems interested, and somehow _sad_. Like this development has gutted some idea she had up until this point. You aren’t sure what it is, but you can _feel it_. “Your oldest.” You say, almost mumbling, but she doesn’t seem to care. “You don’t—she doesn’t see him much.” The realities are wibbling and wobbling around in your mind, but _this_ Cat isn’t _that_ Cat. “If Adam isn’t—who—who's your second son?”

She’s watching you with a trepidation you haven’t seen since before she sat down—the kind she’d had in her eyes when she’d said _she isn’t wearing her ring_ and walked away. Tense in the shoulders, tight in the lips, but it doesn’t take her long to make a decision—she’s standing up and padding down the hall, the door to her bedroom creaking open, and you don’t dare move. The sound of rustling papers, and opening draws shatters the imposed silence for a moment, before she’s returning. A picture in her hands that she taps against your shoulder to take while she walks past with a freshly filled glass of whiskey.

The sky is blue, the background cluttered with bodies that are little blurs of color—a graduation—but you can’t ignore the family that is front and center. Cat stands just behind Carter—who can be no more than six or seven—hand lighting upon his shoulder. He’s dressed in a well-tailored suit, grinning wide to show how he’s missing two teeth; one right in the middle, and one on the bottom and to the side. Cat’s wearing a cream sheath dress with a modest cut and a necklace with—for her—sedate pearls. You’re smiling before you realize who exactly the third occupant of the photograph is.

Clark Kent.

He’s _maybe_ twenty three or four, young in the face and eyes, but there’s no mistaking your cousin. All the photographs on the wall had made it seem like he was a friend of the family, someone who Carter got along with. You weren’t expecting how perfectly Cat fit under his draped arm, how she touched his face like she was tracing stars—with that same soft smile immortalized perfectly. And yet it still did no justice to the actuality of it. Your cousin is smiling wide, blue yes glittering, and somehow the three of them just—fit—and it’s the strangest feeling. Because you’d only _just_ seem how your Cat—not _your_ Cat, _that_ Cat—had fawned and flirted with Clark.

“Clark.” You say, as if she didn’t realize who was in the photograph.

“Clark.” She agrees.

“But how?”

“That’s a story for another time,” she surmises, draining the whole glass, and then pushing to her feet. Cat walks around your seat, looking like she might just walk back down the hall and not say anything, but she stops. Hand pressed to one of the spots on the wall where a picture _had_ been.

Her finger rubs against the paint, and she speaks. “I don’t hate you, Kara, I don’t. But you just happen to have the face of someone I’ve gotten so very good at mourning, and I’m not sure how much I have left in me.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, because what else _can_ you say?

“It isn’t your fault, it isn’t even her fault—and when it’s no one’s fault, who can I be angry with?” She laughs, a brittle little break of a sound, and you can’t see her face—but you can look at the smiling woman in Clark’s graduation photo. “Well, in any case, goodnight.”

The lights click off, and the door clicks closed.

You’re left with a photo from another world sitting harmless as an atom bomb in your lap.


	54. snap shot 54. ( 0, 12, 14 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. You were always closer to your father; he was the kind of man that seemed so much larger than life, until he suddenly didn't. All the mortality you'd been able to ignore as a child are glaringly obvious now. They're gray skin, and yellowed nails, and a cough that doesn't sound proper. For the first time you hear the Death Clock chipping away the moments; burrowing deep into your marrow and making you numb.

* * *

There’s no way to properly say goodbye to someone who dies slowly over a year—each interaction could be the last, or second to last, or tenth to last. You don’t want to apologize for everything each time you see him—you don’t want to say you’ll miss him, just in case you don’t see him tomorrow. You don’t want him to only remember goodbye—you want him to remember the good things. The flowers and the summer afternoons—the movie trips and the museum stops. Its summer, and usually you go to the shore for two months—to the bungalow that your grandmother used to write stories about—the kinds that ended up in Reader’s Digest.

But he can’t leave the hospital anymore—and your skin smells like antiseptic, and your eyes no longer flinch from the sharp lighting in the ICU. The nurses stopped asking you for a guardian weeks ago—your mother has stopped pretending, no—she isn’t _pretending_ —but the weight of reality sits horribly on her shoulders, and authenticity slides away. Your father doesn’t mind that she only stops in when her meetings are in mid-town, or when there are papers to be signed.

“Don’t frown so, Kitty.” He rasps, the tubes in his nose making his words breathy and hushed, but you hear him perfectly; even from where you’re tucked in the corner doing your maths homework. Looking up, you tip your chin, unable to stop the smile, and he grins. “There’s my beautiful girl.”

Carter Richard Grant II, is dying from being cursed with too large a heart—his hypertension worsening, and his arteries deteriorating until the size of his heart doubled. He’d collapsed in the middle of his morning jog—he called them “jogs”, but you know they’re just a leisurely walk to the corner café. You’d been in school, and your grandmother had picked you up from the office and brought you to the emergency room. The doctors had patted themselves on a job well done—and that, had been that.

Except it hadn’t been.

It happened again, in the parlor—and again, in the hallway of your school. He had a pacemaker put in, and when they cracked his chest open to feed bypasses from his left leg and left arm into his chest—that, had been that.

Except it hadn’t been.

Almost two years later—years of hospital stays, and migrating holidays, and you’re left in the cracked white lighting of the intensive care unit. The split in your father’s throat where the tracheotomy had gone—from when they’d forced a medical coma—is bandaged tight and taped off. His hand a mesh of wires and tubes, piles of blankets, and the hockey game on the small television reflecting off the IV bags.

He’s moved over just enough that you can sit on the bed beside him, his arm looped carefully across your shoulders so that none of the tubes tangle. He’s explaining to you the rules of the game—you don’t understand, but you nod and agree—when his favorite player gets put in the box, he curses, and then cheers. You ask him questions—and he answers them—and then those answers give you more questions—and he answers them. You don’t talk about the gray color of his skin, or the rattle in his chest when he breaths.

His hand shakes were it sits on his stomach, the fingers cool to the touch, and his skin pale and waxy. The game has gone into overtime and his precious Canucks are staggering through the last minutes like epileptics at a rave—according to him—and you don’t even think he cares much for the outcome, because he’s turned the volume down, and while he watches the chaos of the screen, his eyes don’t move.

“Did that boy you like—the one with the delicate chin and waxed eyebrows—did he ever ask you out?” He asks it casually, like it’s no big deal, but you’d been bemoaning about Jack Ellis for the better part of the last two weeks. He was on track, and there was really no question that he was going to be their best cross country runner when the semester picked back up. He’d promised to keep in touch, and you had taken his number like it wasn’t any kind of deal. Your mother had been thrilled, because she knew Jack’s father—a man she was probably talking to on the phone right now—it was all a bit incestuous for your taste, but you’d shrugged when she outlined the imperative nature of the relationship.

“I don’t like him,” you intone, huffing while folding over the corner of your notebook, “Mom thinks we should date—he’s Joshua Ellis’ son.” She is always _mom_ when she isn’t around, because it is like she could be someone else if she wasn’t there to ruin the illusion—to scowl, and comment, and chip away at any warmth you’d managed to infuse into the thought of her. She wasn’t horrible, no—and you love her dearly—but she’s cold, and distant.

“You need someone earnest, and sincere, and genuine,” he huffs while listing characteristics, obviously convinced that they aren’t ones that Jack Ellis is capable of. You roll your eyes because you’re pretty sure he’s just firmly entrenched in his _no one’s good enough for my daughter_ rant. It makes you smile because it reminds you that your father doesn’t care about the same things as your mother—he doesn’t have dinner parties to show off the new chandelier, and he doesn’t go to the fanciest restaurant in town just because he _could_ get a table.

“And part of the FBLA, and a perfect GPA, and a _non_ -delicate chin?” You ask, grinning wide because he’s looking down at you with faux-crossness.

“I’m not sure that first is even a real thing, and his GPA could be garbage for all I care,” he sniffs, looking properly put upon, before it cracks and he nudges your chin with his less-wired hand. “Though he should have a strong chin.”

“Good to know you have priorities,” you say trying not to laugh.

“Also has to love you an obscene amount, but that’s a given.” Remote is lifted, and the hockey game is shut off just in time to turn to a Telenovela—there’s a one handed man dragging a locked wooden chest off the back of a pick-up truck. A manic priest flies from the passenger seat, pleading loudly in Spanish, though it doesn’t seem to do much good—you can only understand how the man of the cloth bellows ‘ _porque Manuel, porque!’_

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” you’re facing the television, and so is he—but every few minutes you can feel his eyes looking at you.

“Trust me, Kitty, every father wonders who’ll be the lucky fella to sweep his daughter off her feet.” Click, click—he’s cruising through the channels, though most of them are just static.

“I’m going to keep both feet on the ground,” you say, because you don’t need to be _swept_ anytime soon.

“Because you’re going to be a big CEO one day.” He’s laughing lightly now, eyes squinting in happiness, with only the slightest whisper of pain, “and you don’t need no man.”

You grin, and pop out a, “yep.”

“So, when you build CatCo—,” you interrupt him before he can finish.

Sighing, “that’s a stupid name, dad.”

“I think it has personality.” He’s _always_ thought it had personality—ever since you’d been a small girl and you’d sat in his law office at your brightly colored desk, scrawling logos on the backs of papers that were probably decently important. You’d always preferred _Grant Corp_ , or _Grant Worldwide Media_ —but your father’d always been adamant on CatCo. It just _sounded_ ridiculous.

“No one will take me seriously.” You worry about that sometimes—all the time—because your mother makes it seem impossible. She carves through everything you say with precision, cutting away pieces of your opinion until you just agree with her—or pretend not to care at all. Every time you accomplish something, she plucks, and plucks, and plucks, until it is raw and wilted—crumbling apart between your fingers.

“They’ll take you seriously because you’ll be brave enough to do what so many people can’t—or won’t—do.” Your father says these things like he’s already watched you do them—like he’s proud, and grateful, and amazed—and even with him stretched out beside you on the uncomfortable hospital bed, you miss him. Because you know this isn’t going to be forever—nothing is—and you know goodbye is closer than most things. The doctors are _optimistic_ , but you know the score, the percentages, and your father hugs you goodbye every night like he’ll never be able to do it again.

But for now, you’ll believe with him, “What’s that?”

“Tell the truth.” He ruffles your hair, laughing when you huff and smooth poorly-chosen bangs out of your eyes. “Even when it’s hard.”

“How is the truth hard?” But you already have the answer for that—it sits in your chest like an iceberg, only the tip poking dangerously out of the water. The rest lingers below the surface, hidden away from prying eyes, and illusion of epic proportions.

The truth of your father’s chances is stashed away in the deepest, and darkest, part of your mind. It sits horribly cramped beside the sad realization that the _deep deep_ of your father’s heart monitor has become something of a lullaby to you. When you go home, you can’t sleep without the comforting acknowledgement that he’s still _alive_ —that today won’t be the day you stammer through goodbye.

Not today, but maybe tomorrow.

It’s the truth that _tick tocks_ away in your heart, _knowing_ that time has been reduced to the last few granule of sand in an hour glass.

“Because lies are easier.” He sounds—he sounds— _tired_ , and you don’t like it at all. He’s blinking sluggishly, and the hand over yours where he’d left it after chucking your chin goes lax. You worry for a second—a single moment of panic—before you’re rewarded with a smile. You know the pain killers make him tired, and that in only a few minutes you’ll have to leave and let him rest—even if you don’t want to, even if that tight little crank in your chest is whispering _stay, stay, stay_. To devour all this moment you have with him because they could end at any time.

_Not today,_ you keep reminding yourself.

Maybe that’s a lie, too.

* * *

Carter Richard Grant II dies two minutes before midnight, and when you've been woken up and told you remember that you didn't say  _I love you_ when you left for the night.

But he had to know you loved him; right?


	55. snap shot 55. ( 15, 27, 29 )

**SNAPSHOT (KASSIDY)**. _It's hard sometimes to separate the parts of you that belong to your parents; eyes, and chins, and noses. Those are all genetic, they're little specks of genetic material that makes up everyone; but what about the pieces inside. Like hearts, and minds, and emotions. Are those genetic too?_

* * *

Your heart’s been beating out of your chest for the better part of forty-eight hours. You tried sleeping in both the hotel, and on the plane, but there had been no chance of getting that nervous little tick at the edge of your eye and the corner of your mouth to settle the fuck down. It’s probably because of the three Red Bulls you’d had on the plane alone, not to mention the shots of tequila before that—“ _I’m pregnant,_ ” has clobbered whatever even footing you’d been on without even a moment’s hesitation. Okay, sure, you’d had a pregnancy scare before—but it’d been high school, and you’d been stupid, and young, and she’d been scared, and you’d been _children_ —but this, somehow, it felt _real_.

Cat Grant is a hurricane of a woman, strong, and focused, and desperately close to spiraling out of control—and that was what made her astonishing. Every time it looked like something was slipping off into the wind, she snatched it back—full fisted, and with that _look_ in her eye. There’s no question in your mind that you love Cat Grant, but it’s like you can only remember that when you see her. She’s snide, and smirking, and there’s just something about her that lingers like a sweet poison in your blood. Now, you’re not a writer, not like she is, and you never really were what people would call a “romantic”, but maybe for her you could’ve been.

If she had been at all interested in that type of thing.

She’d smiled prettily enough at you, and she’d laughed at the worst of your jokes—though you have a feeling she was laughing _at_ you, and not _with_ you—and you’d been smitten. She’d never sought you out at the parties, but never turned you away either—it was comfortable, and fun, and you think it was then that you fell a little. The slightest of trips. But then she’d gone cold in the eyes, and her smile became tight, and when you needled her—as you usually do—she didn’t shove you in the arm, and tell you to _fuck off_ in the politest ways. No, she slipped her arm through yours and joined you at the bar. Her smile just as bright, even if there was some new unnamed scar in her eyes—but, you were falling, and selfish, and didn’t mind yourself to ask.

It’s been two months since you said goodbye at the airport—two months since you shrugged away that silly feeling in your chest, and set off to your actual life—a place that doesn’t have time for romantic pitfalls in the glittering highlights of National City. You hadn’t regretted leaving, because you know you can’t sustain who you were for those four weeks—that eventually the phone calls, and the emails, and the late nights would build, and build, and build, and you’d be left wondering what had gone wrong. It’d happened before, once or twice, and you’d been fool enough to wonder if you just weren’t built for that type of thing.

Maybe—probably.

But with Cat you’d been willing to consider trying again, to be a little less selfish, a little less immature, but it wasn’t when she was looking at you that her eyes brightened. She gave you some of her loveliest smiles, the ones that were leagues away from smirks, and hours removed from smug grins. She became soft at her sharpest edges, even if only for a little bit, but it was like owning half a priceless piece of art. It made everything before it pale in comparison, but it still wasn’t everything—it still wasn’t whole.

“Kassidy O’Doherty?” Turning, you see her. The blonde engineer that seemed to always be just outside Cat’s orbit—always smiling, always soft eyed and smoothing Cat’s worst edges. She was sunshine curled at all sides until it could fit in a person. A delight, from what you could remember, even when she’d been easily handing your ass to you during trivial pursuit. She hadn’t gloated, or boasted—just grinned and waved away the praise. A good hearted winner—you hate those because it makes it so difficult to lose poorly. They’re easy-natured and coaxing, and it just makes you mad that you can’t be mad.

But you don’t see any of that _aw shucks_ bashfulness today; no, blue eyes are flinty, like they’re about to alight at any moment, and her smile is all broken glass and gasoline. Waiting for the spark. She’s shorter than you by a good handful of inches, and she’s dressed for the office—crisp shirt, pressed slacks, clunky glasses perched on her nose—but there’s something coiled and sharp about her. Something you can recognize because of the kinds of trouble you’d grown up around in South Boston. Trouble that comes in slight boys who had bright grins and quick fingers—who flipped some little switch inside them that feeds, and feeds, and feeds, until there’s very little good left in them for a spell. Dangerous boys who don’t set those little alarms in the mind off at first—because they’re soft and smiling, until suddenly they’re _not_.

“Yeah,” you drawl, pulling up beside her and looking for anyone else you recognize—a certain hurricane with gold hair and a temper, “you my ride?”

“Something like that,” she hedges, hands moving from her pockets, fingers white-knuckled from where they’d obviously been clenched but she doesn’t move. Feet planted firmly, and she’s squared herself in such a way that the flow of human traffic easily accommodates for her—experienced travelers don’t bother shouldering through people, it just isn’t worth it.

“You’re—Keira, right?”

“Kara,” comes the correction, soft and forgiving; you’re waiting for the blade, “Kara Callaghan.”

The name rings as familiar in your mind—you’ve heard it before, but you can’t pin point where. Callaghan isn’t a unique name, you’d known at least six of them growing up, but you know it’s something beyond that. Something recent that has nothing to do with Cat Grant. Callaghan, Callaghan—and then it clicks. You’d been given a dossier on her about six months back when your company had gotten a corporate account with Lorde Technologies. Everyone knows Maxwell Lorde—he is the face of the company, the CEO—but his co-founder, and majority stock owner, was obscure to the masses. K.A. Callaghan.

A woman who—if the dossier was correct—held a patent for the wireless technology being installed in the International Space Station, who designed NASA’s newest satellite and off-handedly changed the scene with her land-to-air defensive measures. The government had been head-hunting her for the past few years, but she’d always nestled herself comfortably away in the laboratories of Lorde Technologies—letting her charming co-founder deal with the public aspect of their company.

“You’re a client,” you say, because you manage people—you make them click and connect, even if they don’t want to—and she very obviously doesn’t want to.

“Lorde Technologies is,” she surmises.

“No, no,” you correct, letting your bag sit up properly, hands tucking into pockets. Easy posture, small smile—she’s not settled enough for anything more. “Maxwell hired us to manage you. He knows well enough how to jump through media hoops; you on the other hand. You’ve done, what—two interviews? The last one three years ago?”

Her lips purse as she glances behind you, and then to the side. Something must make her decide to step closer, because you can suddenly almost _feel_ how she lingers just out of arm's reach. “We’re not here about me,” she murmurs with something of a smile, though it’s wide enough to really just been a bared set of white teeth.

“I—,” she’s watching you with blue eyes brightening, almost lighting themselves from within, and you deflate. No, you aren’t here for her—you’re here because of two little words that twist and upend worlds. _I’m pregnant_. Exhaling and rubbing both hands through your hair, you nod slightly, “No, we’re not.” No, you’re here _for_ Cat—or _because_ of Cat; you can’t make heads or tails of the difference, but you know there is one.

“Why don’t we get a drink?”

“If it’s anything to you, I’d really like to get moving,” hand on your bag, fingers rattling the name tag.

She smiles, you can practically hear the _tick tock_ of the time bomb attached to her grin, “if it’s anything to you, I think we should get a drink.”

You want to argue, you’re _about_ to argue, but something stalls the words before they even have a chance to develop. Kara’s watching you with a weird sorrow filled kindness, like she’s checking—and re-checking—herself to stop from doing something herself. “Yeah—fuck—alright,” because _fuck_ , you don’t even know what to do anymore. The compass that you’ve had guiding you seems broken, but you know it’s just temporarily disoriented.

You _hope_ it’s temporary.

She doesn’t direct you toward the admirals lounge that you are both surely members of—no, she leads you down the terminals and away from the front doors—further into NCX, a hotbed of international travel. The two seats at the corner of the bar are open, and Kara doesn’t hesitate before she sits down. Though it’s you that flags the bartender down to order the aforementioned drinks—you’re going to need them, you can just feel it.

You last maybe eight minutes in the silence.

“Did she change her mind?” The worry is building like calcium in your blood, choking off arteries and stemming blood flow—you heart stuttering and weeping, your lungs deflating and gasping. You’re almost sure that Cat would tell you something like that to your face—or at least, do it herself—but it’s that _almost_ that makes you take pause. What do you really know about the brittle steel blonde that flits in and out of your life every fiscal quarter?

Kara seems confused, and then unsure, “what?”

Full steam ahead; maybe if you get over the ache in your chest here you can muster up some dignity and decide how you wanted to go at this. _Demand_ Cat’s attention, or slink silently away back into your own life. “You’re here because she changed her mind; she doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Those flinty blues harden, cagey and sharp, “she wouldn’t do that.” The bartender places a martini glass in front of the engineer, an orange twist floating in the soft amber liquid; it smells sweet compared to the straight scotch placed in front of you—a double. “You should know something firstly. If Cat says something, she means it. She doesn’t like wasting words, and she has no time for empty ones.”

Kara’s pretty—gorgeous, actually—but there’s something missing in her, something far away and untouchable. You remember thinking rather lewd things about her after a few drinks, sitting caddy-corner at the counter with Cat and prowling through the patrons of the bar with eyes alone. You’d made ridiculous backstories—lurid affairs and horrible romances—Cat had been all for it, she’d laughed and embellished. She had a particularly ironic sense of storytelling; she flagged details about passers-by without thought.

It’d been your turn, and you’d happened to see Kara—she’d been just a nameless blonde back then—tall, almost awkward, and yet graceful too. She’s been standing shoulder to shoulder with a woman with smooth dark skin and artfully curled hair—Marion, you know now—and you’d pointed her out, missing how Cat had tensed. “She’s in the doghouse,” you’d said then, because there’d been a sad kind of joy about her. A light misery that leaked out of her and melted into the smallest aspects of her face—the way her eyebrows lifted, and the way her smile took just a second too long to show up. You can’t remember _exactly_ what you’d said, but it had to be too close to the truth—secrets, and lies, and lost trust.

Sitting caddy-corner with her now, you want to ask how close you’d been—if the quiet sorrow clinging to her was because of secrets kept, and lies of omission, but even you know it isn’t the right time.

“So you know why I’m here,” you say, because you can’t think of any other way to explain the tension in this woman.

She nods slowly, finally looking directly at you. “I know why you’re here.”

“Does she know you’re giving me _the talk_?”

Kara’s lips twist slightly—almost a smile—but they settle and she exhales loudly. Hand coming up to fix the slightly crooked tilt of her glasses, “Hardly _the talk_ considering why you’re here, I think we’re a little late for that, right?” She’s guileless and shrugging, and you want to tell her to just _get on with it_ , but you’re hot at the collar, and all of your worst ideas happened when your neck flushes and your brain stutters for a moment.

“Anyway,” she continues, using two slender fingers to turn the martini glass in front of her, “I’m just here to—honestly, I don’t know why I’m here.” _Misery_ isn’t supposed to be an attractive quality in a person; it’s meant to ostracize, define, and separate, but something about the way her shoulders hunch, and then un-hunch, says she’s had too intimate a relation with the feeling.

What bed-fellow of misery can still smile like she does?

“You’re worried about her, I mean, I get it.” You _do_ , especially in those stupid little moments when you close your eyes and imagine what life would be like if you weren’t exactly who you were, and Cat wasn’t exactly who Cat was. You’d work at a local business, suit-and-tie finance, or some kind of National City fix-it public relations firm, and Cat would be the next big thing in literary fiction. It’s a stupid dream because it has no _bite_ , and you’re pretty sure you and Cat wouldn’t have gotten anywhere close to where you are without a little snap of teeth.

Sharks swim—antiquated as it is.

“I won’t hurt her,” you say, because it seems the right thing to do, “I mean—fuck—why would I want to? She’s the—fuck—we’re having a kid. That should mean something?” You don’t intend it to be a question, but it somehow becomes one. The concept is still new, still floating about in your mind, and you just can’t solidify what it means to be having a child—it’s swirly, and confusing, and somewhere untouchable, because you’re just floundering now.

“You can’t promise to not hurt someone, it doesn’t work like that.” She says it with the knowing flavor of experience. “You can try but in the end the world happens and you have little say in the matter.” Sighing, she sets her drink to the side, and slowly pulls the glasses from the tip of her nose—she seems…leaner without them, somehow. Eyes still wide, and still so _blue_ , she presses her lips together and unhunches her shoulders—they seem broader than you remember—and reaches out like she might touch your forearm, but pulls up short leaving her hand pressed flat against the bar.

“Cat can take care of herself, and she can make her own choices, and—and she wants you involved in this baby’s life. I know she’ll be an amazing mother, I’ve seen it firsthand—” she trails off with a sigh, there’s something in her eyes that flints and glints, but you’re too focused on the words—slow, chest deep words that seem overdramatic, yet perfectly apt for the tension in her body.

“You don’t get to let her down, she’s had too much of that in her life already—she trusts people more than she says, and when they hurt her she blames herself. You don’t get to be that person, you don’t get to hurt her like that.” If someone had used _trusting_ to describe Cat Grant, you would have _laughed_ , because you’d have been positive there was nothing further from the truth. She’s tight lipped, and shrewd, and something about her eyes says she expects the worst from everyone—which is at odds with the absolute authority Kara Callaghan’s speaking with right now.

But—you believe her.

“Have you?” You ask, because suddenly—like a cold mark down your spine—you need to know.

“Have I what?”

“Hurt her like that,” guileless blue eyes dim and shift—it’s the hallmark sign you’ve been looking for, that promise of a dangerous person who doesn’t ever seem like it until they suddenly _are_. Scrappers who tuck away, and tuck away, until they suddenly can’t anymore and they’re liable to take the whole block with them. _Tick tock_ her eyes say, even with the carved out sad clinging to her like perfume—sharp and bright and dangerous for a _moment_ , before she tucks it back away inside.

You wonder how deep that place inside her is—where she keeps that _tick tock_ locked away.

“I think I might have the market cornered on hurting Cat Grant,” she says it like she’s _tired_ and you wonder how it doesn’t show up on her face like it does everyone else—there’s no red to the whites of her eyes, no shadows along her cheeks, no hollows or wrinkles. She’s sad in the way paintings are sad, you just _know_ —it’s a feeling you have that’s hard to articulate, so you use large imposing words and meaningless little metaphors.

“And she still sent you to pick up her baby-daddy?”

A slight smile, “it makes her feel better to order someone around.”

“Seems reasonable,” you nod like any of this makes _any_ fucking sense. With how you’re sitting on the stool, the arches of your feet are going numb from the pressure you’re putting on them—you didn’t realize you were _perching_ until you settled a little further into the seat and let all your limbs go loose. There’s a tittering little demon in the black of your mind laughing madly at the thought that _you_ were going to be a father—it is an insanity you hadn’t been expecting.

The voice is familiar the louder it gets—when it’s drumming in your ears with your pulse—you can pick up the dropped syllables and the drunken slur. _You’re no son of mine_ , you hear, rumbling and sneering just out of sight—you can remember how the walls had bowed and shaken when your father had slammed the front door. The _chuh chuh chuh_ of the beaten up Cadillac at the curb that started only once out of every five tries. _Chuh chuh chuh_. You’d shove your hands over your ears, pretending like you didn’t flinch when he started yelling. Distantly—outside and away from you—but it didn’t seem to matter, it would never matter. It’s something you carry inside you now, something that will always exist.

Kara’s looking at you with limpid blue eyes, glasses still in her hand, fingers plucking at a bar napkin with the air line’s logo at the edge.

But even here, decades removed from that little boy who flinched, all you can hear is that struggling Cadillac.

_Chuh chuh chuh._

You blink, and something in your chest burns.

_Tick, tock—snap._

Swallowing the scotch with no consideration for the burn, “maybe I should just get back on a plane and you can tell Cat I changed my mind,”

 _Chuh chuh chuh_ —you don’t want to be this kid’s broken Cadillac.

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why-fucking-not? You don’t know anything about me, you don’t know what I would—or wouldn’t—do.” You snap, because something in your chest feels brittle and flighty; a knee jerk reaction to buy a ticket to Nova Scotia and forget to look back. “The kid’ll be better off without me; I wouldn’t know _how_ to be a father, I never really had a role model to look up to. I’d just fuck them up.”

And like _your_ panic has replaced her own, she’s calm as the eye of the hurricane. Leaning just forward enough to rest forearms against the bar, “that’s an excuse. You’re just scared.”

“Fuck yeah I’m scared! I think about being a father, and all I can remember is how mine used to put cigarettes out on my arm.” Your fingers touch the spot near your shoulder where the pocked burns will always be—above the sleeve so no one saw them. They’ve faded and smoothed over the years, you’d even had the worst corrected with surgery, but _you_ knew they were there. “I’m scared—shit, I’m scared that that’s already inside me, and it doesn’t matter that I’m not him.”

“We’re not our parents,” she says, licking her lips. “You’re not him.”

“Part of me is,” the argument is thin, but it’s something that crawls and decays inside you that makes you drive home the point. “Half of me is from that bastard.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and you think she might agree—it’s something in how her eyes chase away—you wished you weren’t so good at seeing those little micro-expressions. You wish you didn’t make a career of hearing all the things someone _isn’t_ saying. But whatever courage she’s searching for, she finds it, “Why’d you come?”

You pause—blink—and shrug.

“Fuck if I know,” you deflect, shoulders rolling one time too many, “S’was the right thing to do. I’m a dick but I’m not that big of a dick.”

“I’m pretty good at reading people,” she says it slowly, voice a little lilting—like she has an accent that you’d never noticed before. Her feverish palm in on your arm, and you can feel the heat through the sleeve—you’d usually make a remark about how she can’t help touching you, but her eyes are serious. She’s smiling, and it’s a wholly confident expression—so at odds with the fidgeting and the flighty looks you’d seen up until she’d met you at gate 27C.

It’s like she’s decided something.

“If I thought for a second you were a danger to Cat, or the baby—no one would ever find you.” Simple solid words that pass her lips with them hardly moving. It isn’t the loud boisterous threat that you’re used to from brutes and scoundrels. The boyish-men who practically beat their chests with bravado, glowering harsh and sure under pensive brows and down crooked noses. Kara says it like a simple fact— _oh, by the way_ her toned implies, while bitter edged blues say something completely different.

“I don’t think we know each other well enough for casual mentions of murder,” you appease, smiling to show you’re in on the joke.

Kara smiles to herself, and then to you—wide and happy, all that sadness slinking into the blue of her eyes and the strain in her cheeks. “Nothing casual about it,” she argues lightly.

You feel—lighter. Like the digging nails of the past have momentarily lost their grip, loosened their hold just enough so that you could slip free. Kara’s smiling like she might be feeling better about this whole thing to; a weird feeling to feel like someone might really be on board with the idea that you’re going to be a father. _Father_. Even now the word feel heavy and unyielding in your mind, let alone your mouth. Ordering another drink, you’re determined that this will be your last one—two empty glasses sit in front of you, and you don’t even remember the second.

“So,” you drawl, long and thoughtful, looking at Kara with a side eye—she’s determinedly looking at hands clasped together in front of her, fingers a little whiter than they should be. You’re pretty slow on some up takes, but when you’re on board there’s no one who could convince you otherwise. “Which one of us gets to be the daddy?”

_One—two—punch._

You knew it was kind of a dick move, but you didn’t expect how she pushed backward and tipped her stool over—arms pin wheeling, some kind of squawk escaping. You do try to help, grabbing at a flailing arm as it goes by, but there’s no way to fix this. She hits the ground and is back on her feet with impressive speed, righting the stool she was on while apologizing to whoever could hear her. When she’s seated again, you’re just grinning and she’s clearing her throat, “I—gosh, I’m such a klutz. Would trip over my own feet if I wasn’t careful!”

You want to tell her talking louder doesn’t make things more believable. “So?” You prompt, eyebrows raised while taking a sip of scotch.

“I—don’t—you, obviously!” She’s laughing, fixing her glasses and clearing her throat, “What a silly question.”

You feel kind of bad for her, because her eyes are flickering back and forth like she’s looking for an exit. You’d usually just laugh off her distress, but you’re familiar with that brand of _trapped_ —the kind that builds at the neck and digs down under the collarbones, sitting like a lead weight in your chest. “How long’ve you loved her?” Because you could’ve mistaken it for just being close friends before, but there’s nothing _friendly_ about her now. “I mean—fuck—I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

The part of you that sneers _mine_ at the thought of Cat—of the baby—is pushed under the understanding that you aren’t even sure you can be that guy. Be the person who is there without question—oh, you’ll try, you’ll do whatever is asked of you. But—Kara’s sweating, and her lips are pressed tightly together, she’s breathing a little hard, and you want to tell her it’s alright. It’s—you’re actually fine with it.

You’re surprised by how fine.

“But you do love her, right?” You need to be sure, you need to press a pin into the edge of your heart and deflate that part that hopes, and dreams, and thinks— _maybe, maybe, maybe_. The part that wants to look for condos in National City, that wants to ask Cat to marry you. The part that doesn’t want to see how her jaw works, and works, and works, until she nods—a hard single motion.

“With everything I am,” she’s serious, and severe, and you exhale.

Your heart blisters and aches but you needed to know this now before you let yourself hope for something that isn’t possible. For the look in Cat’s eyes that she doesn’t reserve for you but for the woman leaning heavily on the bar next to you. “Well, okay,” drinking the last of your scotch, you glance at your watch and see that nearly three hours have past.

Inhale—exhale, “if it makes her feel better to order someone around, she should feel twice as good ordering two people around.”


	56. snap shot 56. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAPSHOT (CLARK)**. _You've gotten pretty good at this 'saving the world' thing. You've fought aliens, and meta-humans, and just regular ol' humans. You like to think there's nothing that can come your way that'll make you fumble and balk. That is until a large Grey hell-beast burst through the Metropolis skyline with some kind of vendetta. Don't worry, you got this. You're the man of steel, after all ..._

* * *

Turns out he can bend steel with his bare hands.

Your ribs crack, buckling under the weight of a planet, folding inward, as you feel the touch of the sun a little less—you feel cool, and the heat in your blood begins to simmer. Each blow feels like it could be your last, but you won’t allow that because your family was finally whole again, was finally getting better. There could be no more lose, no more sacrifice—no more, _no more_. But this alien doesn’t know about your family’s brittle edges and bleeding heart, he doesn’t know that each and every one of you sleeps fitfully because they know _too_ well what it feels like to miss something important.

 So you bat away a sledgehammer of a right, and duck under a haymaker of a left—but have nothing left to stop the sole of a massive foot from hitting your sternum and launching you backwards into the memorial park at the center of Metropolis. All you can hear is your breathing, all you can see is blood in your eyes—and when the cold seeps too far into you, bleeding away your heat, you shiver. Because you can’t handle the cold, you aren’t built for it. You are heart, and fire—and this cold numbs you, and slicks away the burn of determination that kept making you stagger to your feet. You hear how his weight settles like an earthquake beside you, and brace yourself for the crushing finality of his blow.

But nothing comes.

Not right away, anyway.

The ground shakes and trembles, but further from you than it just had, and when you can wrangle enough effort, you look up. Right into the crest of the House of El. It is an Under Armor fitted muscle shirt, you can see the logo dark and black at the collar of the royal blue shirt—framed by black and gold piping, and the spread flaps of a crimson hooded sweatshirt. The way the sweatshirt billows and cracks against the hot wind pushing against your cheeks make it look like—look like…

A cape—it looks like a cape.

Kara blinks down at you, her face set firmly, her eyebrows drawn close, and you recognize the tightly fitting face mask as one that you’d worn when you’d been forced into baseball as a college credit—cold gear that kept her golden hair tucked away, and most everything except her blue eyes hidden. There’s nothing particularly heroic in the slouch of her shoulders, but there’s a danger in the curl of her fists, and the lashing in her eyes.

Everything she’s wearing could be purchased at a Modell’s—and you’re fairly certain that _is_ where you picked them up—and had been given to Kara as something of a gag gift when she’d started adjusting enough to leave the safety of her apartment. But she wears the mass-produced shirt like she understands what it means—when she traces the symbol, the words in her mind are from a dead planet, and it takes a moment to realize that for so many people, it is _just_ anything— _just_ an _s_ — _just_ a symbol.

Nothing important.

When in reality it meant _everything_.

She’s pivoting with grace, stepping over her own foot without effort, and the running hulking frame of your adversary is unbalanced and tipping forward. Not expecting someone who doesn’t desire to go punch for punch—as he tips, Kara drives an elbow into his spine—or where his spine is supposed to be—and he slams down, grunting angrily and already beginning to stagger to his feet. He’s bloody—like you are—and his blood is bright and almost cartoonish. Purple like Easter candy and velvet pimp suits. The way Kara keeps stepping out of his path carefully, and fluidly, make you think of sixth grade and what you’d learned about the myths of Greece.

About gods, and titans, and heroes. You’d learned that year that the gods didn’t bleed red and hot like mortals—no, their blood was metallic and gold. _Ichor_. You’d wondered if your cousin bled gold—if her veins were filled to the brim with molten quicksilver that would spill yellow and beautiful in the light of day. But you’d learned—years later—that she bled like any mortal; red, and hot, and fatal. You’d seen what her face looked like splashed with her own crimson, had been unable to see any difference between her and every other unfortunate human who’s become acquainted with their life force.

She blinked less, maybe—she didn’t seem to notice it, probably.

Now, she’s untouched. Her arms still loose at her sides, fists unclenched as she ducks and weaves around the fists trying to knock her into next week. Once or twice, you think she’s been caught, but it’s only the ripple of her sweatshirt snagged on a shattered knuckle. The beast is heaving massive breaths, wheezing like he’s having difficulty breathing—but he doesn’t stop, arms swinging wildly, eyes going milky and purple, like they’ve filling with his cartoonish blood.

“ _Zor El_.” He rumbles, voice alone enough to vibrate the ground, a little tremor as he whips his head around and stares at where Kara’s standing—about twenty feet from the alien, arms still at her sides. “ _Aren’t we going to finish our fight, little kryptonian?_ ”

Kara blinks, like she’s stepping out of fog, and suddenly realizes where she is, “ _No fighting, Korlenge; not anymore._ ” They’re speaking Kryptonese, but it’s loose and informal, _comfortable_. And it’s _astonishing_ to know this is Kara’s native language, _this_ is how she spoke for the first twelve years of her life until she was jettisoned across the galaxy. It isn’t even the starched and stilted words you know from your childhood, or that Carter wrote on flashcards—this is _real_ , and conversational.

“ _I don’t think you get to decide._ ”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips twitch, “ _I do_. _You’re on your last lung, aren’t you?_ ” She walks around him, to his far side, and you’re only _now_ noticing that she’s barefoot. “ _I can hear it_.” There’s nothing particularly _predatorial_ about Kara, but there’s a focus that’s unsettling, because you’ve never been this close when she’s stepping in the path of destruction. Playing vanguard for earth from all extraterrestrial invaders.

“ _You’ve never escaped me before, Zor El_.” Korlenge’s grin is massive—all glinting dark teeth carved into rough points. Large enough that you wonder how he closes his mouth, until you see how they snap back into his gums as his lips curls over them once more.

“ _You’ve only seen me in the dokhahsh_ ,” you’re following along, you understand everything even if you’d never been able to pluck the words out of your skull alone. But that word—you don’t know what that one means. “ _There’s very little I can’t do out here, Korlenge_.”

“ _If you’re so mighty, little kryptonian, come play_.” It sounds like a laugh, the way he wheezes and chuffs while beating both fists against his chest.

“ _Worried it’ll take nothing more than the air to end you, Korlenge_?” The way she says that word, over and over, makes you realize that unlike _dokhahsh_ , it is a name—this alien’s name. Kara _knows_ him. “ _You’re more delicate than I remember. Brittle, even_.”

The beast howls and charges—even you can hear how he’s struggling to breath, his double barrel chest rattling with effort, his body shuddering under the strain of throwing all his weight behind the swipes of his clawed hands. Kara ducks, dodges, and steps back—hand batting his fist down until he’s staggering down, holding his weight up with a trembling fist.

“ _You’ll die, Zor El.”_ He rumbles, laughing through the gurgle of blood in his throat. “ _You think I’m the only one who wants revenge? There’s a line waiting for a piece of you, little Kryptonian._ ” Kara’s shaking her head, like she’s trying to keep her senses here—not out in the black of space where she gets lost sometimes.

“ _Do I look afraid_?” she says, harsher than you’re used to from her—even now that she’s been back and she’s darker. Pulling down the mask form the lower half of her face, she steps closer to the fumbling alien, her foot hitting him hard in the shoulder, tipping him onto his back. The way she’s bending forward leaves her shadowed and hidden, even from the Daily Planet film crew at the edge of the park, live streaming the fight.

You can see Lois at the edge of the park, her microphone forgotten as she watches Kara lean down and get close to the alien’s face. He’s spitting purple blood and it’s landing on your cousin’s cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice—her eyes have gone wide and dark, in that faraway place she trips off to every once in a while. Her hands are curled in the scraps of fabric on Korlenge’s chest, looking to be from some kind of prison jumper. Hands twice the size of your cousin’s head raise up and aim to crush her blonde head between his fingers.

—but he’s never given the chance. Kara’s back with ice-chip eyes and an etched frown. “ _Why_?” Now she seems lost, dislodged and confused as she bends his forearms awkwardly until he’s howling. “ _We’re free; after—why can’t that be enough_?” The ice in her eyes is melting, and it’s slicking down her cheeks, only to drip off the point of her chin. From a distance it must look like they’re praying—knelt on the floor, hands clasped together.

“ _Our worlds are gone—our time devoured_ ,” he growls, voice choppy and wheezing. It sounds like he’s dying, drowning in his own chest. “ _We have nothing to lose anymore—but you. Oh, little Kryptonian, you have this new home to worry about._ ” Their hands are shaking where they’re clasped together; her fingers whitening, his palms graying. Two titans clasped together in some battle of wills—you like Kara’s odds, she’s hardly winded and firm in her stance, but there’s a brittle crack living in her eyes now. In the bow of her lips as she tries to say something—and then again—until finally she speaks, in English this time.

“You don’t get to have them,” she hisses, low and wet, “You don’t.” The affirmation is coupled with the howl of sirens—the DEO pulling up along the edge of the park, agents in black clothing shouldering their large weapons.

“ _Do they know_?” He asks, laughing as his arms finally shake enough that they fall limp to the ground. Kara’s hands have reached his jaw, fingers settling flat against the sharp gray line of his neck. Standing up, you’re close enough that his sinister eyes flicker to you for a moment before they turn back to your cousin. She’s faraway again, that pale static impression of a person she was when she first came back—a stranger with your cousin’s face.

She doesn’t say anything to him, which only makes him laugh harder.

“ _They don’t_ ,” he croons.

You step forward, stumbling through with poorly translated words, “ _Know what_?”

Korlenge looks at you with a wide grin, “ _She’d have you think her a saint in a prison of beasts_.” He coughs, and you watch how Kara’s fingers twitch, his chin jutting awkwardly, “ _She was the worst of us—after a while. Kryptonians always were the best killers_.” You hear two things at the same time—how Kara’s heart quickens and sprints away at a mile a minute—

—and how Korlenge’s neck snaps easily between her inhuman hands.

The beats slumps backward bonelessly, and you hadn’t even realized that Kara’d been holding most of his weight slightly off the ground. The DEO is surrounding you now, their weapons not pointed at the deceased Fort Rozz prisoner—but the living one. She’s pulled the mask up over the bottom portion of her mouth and hunched forward slightly, purple splattered hands tucked into the crooks of her elbows when she turns to see you.

You expected something horrible and monstrous to be stretched across her face and in her eyes when she looks at you—but she just looks sad. Sad, and tired. The agents are chattering, most of them trying to pretend like they aren’t giving her the side eye—like she doesn’t make them nervous—but with how she shrinks away, you know she sees it. When you’re close enough to speak to her without anyone overhearing you only really want to know one thing. “Why?”

You don’t kill—you’d learned that from her.

A lesson she doesn’t seem to abide by anymore.

“ _If he lived, you were in danger._ ” Simple, pragmatic. She’s blinking slowly, and backing away—you feel the atoms charging in the air, knowing she’s about to take off.

“I can take care of myself,” you say, in English—though low enough only the two closest agents could hear.

A pause—long and quiet, “ _And your brother—your mother_?”

She knows you don’t call Cat _mother_ , but the sentiment sinks in—you’re indestructible, you’re alien and _other_. But your family? The people you love most? They’re so very breakable. If they had been who Korlenge had been after, they would be _gone_. You suddenly understand why Kara’s fracturing at her edges—all the progress she’d made, all the quiet hope and love she’d been filling herself with these last weeks must taste bitter at their corners. At the places where she can see how easily everything can fall apart.

“ _No_ ,” she says simply, before the atoms around her erupt, and she rockets off in to the sky.


	57. snap shot 57. ( -, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [canon/38]

**SNAP SHOT (ALEX)**. _Sometimes you think you know what to say, know what to do; but then everything morphs and shakes, and nothing makes sense anymore. All those pieces you'd been gathering for days, weeks, months, years, suddenly mean nothing because fate has shaken everything up._

* * *

“For all intents and purposes,” one of the doctors at your side says; an odd quiet has fallen over the room, everyone reducing their noise input to nearly nothing—which leaves about ten too many bodies just lingering around looking through the double sided glass. “That’s Supergirl.” He says it with what he must deem to be the appropriate amount of gravitas—you expect him to add his own _dun dun dun_ at the end, but he restrains himself. The folder is passed to you without question, and you skim over all the numbers and readings that agree with exactly what he’s saying—genetically, that _is_ Supergirl.

But that isn’t your sister.

This impostor hasn’t moved in the three hours since she’d awakened briefly in the surgical suit, thrashing just enough to let the doctor remove the tube that had been down her throat. She’d momentarily blinked open eyes that were drugged and cloudy, but there’d been a sideways kind of recognition in them—a blue that was the perfectly right shade, but was still somehow so wrong. You wouldn’t be able to describe in words the differences, because it wasn’t something that was contextualized—it was internal, and emotional, and instinct alone. Closing the manila folder, you hand it back to one of the doctors and cross your arms over your chest. Most of them take that as a cue to exit into the hallway, leaving you alone—looking through the glass at the figure lying motionless in the bed.

She’d appeared three days ago— _appeared_ being far too lacking a term for the two blocks in National City that had imploded. A whirling screaming mass of energy that cycled—and cycled—and cycled—until the energy had simply collapsed on itself and spat the powerless Kryptonian out onto the crater that had once been part of downtown. Six dead, thirty eight wounds—nearly a two hundred homeless. The alien that had already been demolishing that part of the city had vaporized in the blast—its atoms having vibrated themselves apart, leaving an almost mist like spread of alien DNA at the bottom of the crater. You’d been the first agent to slide down the ten foot slope of ground zero, waving smoke and vaporized alien out of your face.

You’d been composed for much of the moment—hand on your weapon, face set—but then you’d seen the prone figure face down in a puddle of blood and you’d panicked. A fear like you have only felt once or twice—a different kind than what you’d felt when Kara had been saying goodbye. No, that was pain, and sadness, and anguish—but this was a consuming panic. Blonde hair dyed red with blood, limbs spread out awkwardly and askew; she looked like a broken doll that had been tossed away. Fingers against her throat, her pulse had been weak—a dull and lackluster _thud_ against your fingertips. It was only after you’d demanded the medics stop pussy footing their way down the crater that you noticed her clothes—singed and charred, what few pieces of fabric left were dark gray and black. Hard fibers woven together and stretched across the unnatural twist of her rib cage.

You hadn’t wanted to turn her over, but her breathing was too labored for her to rest all her weight on her chest—securing her neck, fingers spread along her jaw, you’d gently turned her onto her back. Whatever mask had been over her face had cracked, leaving her hair free, and her face bloody. The slope of her brow had been stained red, and you had wanted—so much—to wipe the blood free, to see your sister beneath the color. But she’d stopped breathing—the staggered and stilted rise and fall of her chest had ceased, and you’d shouted for the medics to _hurry_. Chest compressions are something that most people do improperly—they’re afraid to press too hard, afraid to cause any harm. You know—you know that a broken rib later will matter little if you don’t get them breathing now.

And Kara wasn’t breathing.

Even years removed from all those basic emergency medicine classes _Staying Alive_ still sits somewhere in the back of your mind when doing CPR. The rhythm, the focus, anything that had been able to keep you from breaking down. “Kara!” You can remember how you’d said her name then—low enough that you know no one heard, but even if they’d have been bale to—you don’t think you could have stopped yourself.

“Come on, Kara.” You’d begged, pressing her chest and keeping her heart pumping—keeping her body alive while more advanced help arrived. “Come on!” Her body had been limp and cool, her head unmoving, even if most of her body had rocked with the motion of resuscitation. Pinching her nose and forcing air into her lungs had left the taste of copper on your lips. You know you’d gotten sick later, when you’d wiped at your face and they’re come away red with Kara’s blood. Cool red so much worse than the molten copper that it had been.

In the tactical truck, she’d died twice—the monitors jumped and quivered, but the medical team had been quick to hit her with the paddles. A person’s body coils when shocked, bowing and snapping—but Kara’d been so still, her body immobilized by a neck brace and a back board. She’d strained against the ties, and then gone motionless. You’d held her hand once they’d gotten her back, winding your fingers through the cool palms that you were so used to being scalding hot.

You’d sat in the back of the truck with copper on your tongue, and your sister in surgery. Your fellow agents had looked at you like they didn’t realize you were capable of breaking—and you weren’t, not really, but your edges were splintering and the ache in your chest was getting worse. You’d stayed there until Hank had gotten you—put his hand on your shoulder and said it had been successful. Winn and James had shown up, waiting in the hall like strangers, you hadn’t even balked when they followed you in—Kara needed to see you all. She needed—she needed—but the person on the bed had been all wrong, like a fun-house mirror that was nearly perfect. Slanting just enough for everything to see horribly out of place.

That had been three days ago, and you’d yet to get the courage to walk back into the recovery suite.

That ended now.

The door slides open easily, tucking back into the wall for a moment before hissing closed behind you—the doctor marking down vitals and adjusting the sun lamps glances your way before ducking low and removing themselves. You know there’s talk going around the compound—about Supergirl, about you, about what exactly had happened three days ago. You’d even managed to catch a speech from Cat Grant rallying the citizens as she is always wont to do—you appreciated it, even if you scowled through the whole recording.

She’s asleep. Eyes flickering behind lids, lip twitching with every half murmured sound that escapes her—it wasn’t English, not primarily—but every tenth or twelfth word was a name. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. _Your name_. You can see all the way she’s different now under the oddly toned sun-lamps—she’s tanner, and sharper, the cords of her forearms more defined and her shoulders just ever so slightly broader. But still—but _still_ , she’s Kara. In ways that aren’t measurement, and aren’t tones. They’re seeing how even in her sleep her nostrils flare slightly—and how her thumb and forefinger rub together—how her accent is so thick when she’s unaware. Lilting and avian; something you’d grown so used to as a child. How she’d sound so _foreign_ when she just woke up, or when she was upset.

Things that can’t be taken away—but also can’t be given.

You’re standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over your chest—jaw set—and you focus on something other than her face. The bruised bare foot poking out from the bottom of the sheet, the slight rock of her opposite leg. You’re so determined not to scrutinize her that you don’t know when she wakes up — there’s no obvious give away, no sudden motion, and no simper of sound. You just glance up and are snared by blue eyes—she’s only partially aware, lids still heavy, drugs still thick in her blood, but she recognizes you. It’s the way she cheeks flinch and tense—the furrow in her brow—it makes her look somehow more, and less, like Kara at the same time.

The silence stretches—thin and reedy.

You break first.

“You’re not her,” you wish you could _shout_ it, could throw the words like daggers and make this impostor hurt like you’re hurting—but that stupid voice inside that always makes you take a breath knows that this woman hurts just like you. Maybe not with the same names on her heart and in her soul, but her eyes are made of the black spaces between stars, the empty touches where things are cold, and unfeeling, and alien. She looks up at you, still hurt enough that even that makes her wince—face scrunching, nostrils flaring in pain. Her jaw is clenching, tight enough that you can almost hear the creak of her teeth meshing together.

She blinks much too slowly, the drugs threatening to drag her under again, “Aren’t I?” Her voice is harsh, like she’s speaking with a mouthful of broken glass between her teeth. You don’t know that in another world, on another Earth, a seventeen year old boy is saying those exact words to your sister.

“You’re not,” you assure, firm and resolved.

She smiles like it hurts and closes her eyes, sinking back into the pillows with what should look like relaxation—but it just looks staged. Like she’s trying so hard to smooth out edges, and she just can’t seem to accomplish it. “I’m not,” she agrees with a sigh. You know the technicians talk when they’re checking her vitals—you’d wanted an information vacuum around her until her abilities returned and nothing was safe. But—human nature is sometimes impossible to contain—you know she knows about Supergirl, a Kryptonian superhero protecting National City, and her cousin—Superman—what else she’s pieced together in the three days you’ve stayed away, you have no idea.

“What happened?” There’s theories, and opinions—but you haven’t made it this far with just taking baseless conclusions at face value—there was seismic activity with an epicenter right below where the crater was. The whole block had literally shaken itself apart, and that was only when the energy _started_ to form.

Sluggish blinks, and a soft exhale, the blue of her eyes nearly gray in the artificial sun-lamps. “Does it matter?”

God, you want to _shake_ her—and you have to pause for a moment and remind yourself that this isn’t Kara—this isn’t your _sister_. She watching you carefully, eyebrows pinching like she’s trying not to cry, face twisting ever so slightly and you can’t—she _looks_ like Kara, looks like her just as she’s about to break down, just about to splinter and crack. It’d happened a number of times over the years—and you’d gotten pretty damned good at consoling an orphan alien, but this—this isn’t your sister. She isn’t the bright spark in your day, she isn’t the warm comfort at night curled up on the couch watching Game of Thrones. She’s—she’s—

She’s silently sobbing.

Her face doesn’t move at all, doesn’t flinch or shift, but the tears roll down her cheeks uninhibited by anything other than the gauze taped just in front of her left ear. Her eyes are cerulean crystals, and her lips look bloody from where she’s obviously bitten her lip to stay quiet—and it hits you like a punch to the chest. _Thud, thud_ —no, it’s just the brutal beat of your heart, smashing against the monster’s cage that is your ribs. _Release me, release me_ —like the chant from some ridiculous B-rated horror film—which would make your heart Frankenstein’s monster.

Stepping closer you can see how tightly she’s clenching her fists, nails digging into the meat of her palm, little droplets of crimson staining the white of her sheets. You can’t help flinching because only three days ago she’d been _covered_ in red—drowning in her own chest, dying at the bottom of a crater with gray eyes and cool skin.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, you don’t even have the agency to stop yourself—one of her clenched fists is caught between your palms— _now_ she flinches, eyes widening and face hardening, but it’s still _too_ open. Like your sister. Her eyes are maps of pain, and even though they’re dark and cool and foreign, you can connect some of the dots—you know some of the navigational landmarks. That place at the edges where a dying planet lives, that fleck of silver near the pupil that’s estranged family—and that placid blue, that fills so much of her eyes. A fear that says she worries about being alone in a crowded room.

“It matters,” just a whisper, but you’re nearly pressed to the side of the bed now—and she’s stopped trying to pull her hand away, if anything she curls closer until she’s keening with a pain that she’s apparently ignoring in the favor of being closer.

“Alex,” she murmurs, face half turned into her blood dotted pillow, eyes squeezed shut. “It hurts.”

She says your name with familiarity, with a need that in bone deep and bloody—she says it like your sister. Like someone who trusts you to sooth her, to comfort her. All the brittle strength and stoic acceptance melts away into consuming misery—it radiates off her, makes the air seem sour and wrong. One of your hands is trapped between her shaking weak hold—both of her cool palms pressing inward, fingers tangling with yours—and it seems only natural to press your second hand gently against the crown of her head. There’s still strands that are stained red, the doctors had cleaned her up, but they hadn’t wanted to disturb her too much. You feel the rough scratch of a stitched wound and you can only clench your jaw to stop from murmuring soft and comforting words.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t _stop_.” Her words warble, thick with tears, “Every— _every_ impulse I’ve ever had—I almost—” She’s nearly incoherent, but you don’t need to hear the rest of her words for a cord to be struck in your heart. You’d done this before. You’d watched your sister break because the world got to see that dark place inside without permission—there was no better self to manage her, no softening the edges she herself sometimes didn’t realize she had.

“I could only think about—how Krypton was out there, _somewhere_.” Most of her explanation is lost to sobs and sniffles, but you hear enough to begin putting pieces together especially once you hear the name _Barry_. Another Earth, another dimension—another Kara. _I can’t, I can’t_ —the words are just faint recriminations, and you wish there was something you could say that wasn’t baseless. Something that wasn’t _you don’t know me_ , because she clutched at your hand like she did—like you could make this better in some way, which seemed an impossibility.

Not even because this woman was so broken—physically and emotionally—or because six people died with countless more injured—no, this couldn’t be _right_ , because your sister is missing. She went into a churning vortex of energy with the force of a loosened bullet, and she’d vanish. Shaken apart, for all you know. And in her place was this broken keening creature with her face and sadder eyes. She’s winding down, the heaving going away slowly—her shoulders stretching under your touch, and you stupid want to ask if she feels better—you know she doesn’t.

After a while, you see how she’s shifting—legs bunching up, fingers clenching—and you know without actually _knowing_ this woman, that she’s planning on getting up. Her sorrow has compounded and curled, until it folded itself horribly into a determination that sets your teeth on edge.

You want to stop her, to press against her shoulders and keep her down but there’s a teeth grinding determination about her that’s—numbing. Sharp blue eyes that burn with something more internal and human that heat vision—her jaw’s clenched tightly and her fingers go white knuckled and strained against the bed railing. The “you’re hurting yourself” that trips off your tongue is almost an afterthought because—well, because she shouldn’t be able to move at all. You know how drained your sister is when she blows her powers out—you know she still heals faster, if not impressively so—you know that the pain is mind-scrambling because she doesn’t know how to _be_ human. How to _be_ breakable like everyone else on the planet.

This woman doesn’t seem to care that the place where they’d stitched her skull back together was weeping red down her forehead, of that the bandages around her chest were already crimson—she doesn’t flinch and withdraw from the pain, if anything it pulls her forward. Faster and more recklessly. It isn’t until the blankets have fallen into her lap in a puddle of fabric, and she’s trying to leverage herself up that you manage to intervene. Fingers cupping wide heaving shoulders, fingers inadvertently rubbing the sides of her neck—it was how you calmed Kara when she bucked and tried to shake away her mortal shackles. When she got heroic and self-sacrificing and heavy with guilt—she never says it, but she doesn’t need to.

Not to you.

“Kara,” you say, imploring her to calm down—and you realize. You haven’t called her that—not in your mind, not out loud, not to others. “You need to stop. You’re not in any condition to leave.” You almost say no one would let her leave, because you know—somehow—that would only make that determination inside her burn hotter. Pressing on her shoulder with the least amount of pressure possible, you’re used to her giving in—in just folding back and accepting this brittle humanity—but this woman, _this Kara_ , smacks your hand away like it’s a hindrance and not the anvil it must feel like to her. She’s leveraging herself forward on unsteady feet and wavering enough that she has to grab the bed rail tighter to stay upright.

She’s tall—lean and muscled harder than your sister—it’s the way her silhouette sits on her frame, broad and solid and breaking all the time. She’s edges, and corners, and missing pieces in all the ways that your sister is conceding curves and jigsaw pieces found. There’s pocked marks on her arm that look like cigarette burns, but the slightly greenish-grey tilt lets you know they’re from Kryptonite. There’s a curved scar at the top of her left breast where it looks like someone had tried to dig at her heart—an ugly mark that’s still soft pink at its white edges. With the compression shorts and bra meant to keep her bones steady without brackets and braces you can see the vertical marks on her stomach—curving up near her belly button, faint and stretched.

“I’m a broken positive, Alex,” she exhales, the pain in her voice twisting through and around the steel determination, “Born to hang, you’ll never drown.”

You frown, “what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

One shaky step forward, another to the side as she catches her balance. “How can I die any other way, if I was supposed to die on Krypton with my people?” She’s slurring as she rips at the IV fed into the back of her hand and her bicep—it takes very little time before she’s bleeding just under the skin because of a blown line. “Maybe one day I’ll go back to the rubble of asteroids, or maybe I’ll find it whole in another universe.” Another step, crimson dripping slowly to the white floor, the heart monitor screaming as the metal prongs get pulled off the stickers on her chest.

“But here—here I’m a broken positive,” she’s kind of laughing, and as she moves forward, you keep pace and take steps backwards to stay with her. “My planet dies, I find my new home—I lose ten years of my life, I find my aunt—I kill—I do horrible— _this happens_ , and—and—I don’t know.”

She isn’t making sense, not really, and you don’t think she even realizes she’s justifying herself, because her posture is crumbling, and her eyes have no focus left to spare. When she trips forward—toes catching the medical cords keeping her IVs alive—she falls against your chest, scalding and shaking, and rubbing her forehead on your collarbone. Clutching this Kara—not your sister—to you feels right, and wrong, and you’re conflicted, because you shouldn’t feel protective and dwarfed at the same time. There’s a life lived in this woman’s face, an eternal struggle in her eyes.

_Born to hang, you’ll never drown._

“My kids watched me almost kill their brother,” she’s saying quietly, her lips not even moving against the fabric of your shirt—all the fight draining out of her like holes have been poked in her to leak the air. “I became the villain I promised to protect earth from.”

“It wasn’t you,” you don’t need to know the details to know this is true. “Not really.”

Her laugh is cracked at the edges, brittle and shaking apart. “No, it was,” sad, simple and soft. She’s boneless and letting you angle her back into bed, lets you press the button for the medical staff, lets the silence stretch a moment. Eyes shut, face closed off. “That’s the worst part. That’s the truth.”


	58. snap shot 58. ( 11, 23, 25 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**. _Its funny if you think about it; how much time has passed. It can be squared away into little windows; a year, ten years, a moment. But there's things you'll always remember, moments that are perfect, and wrong, and undeniable. Moments that you wish you could go back to over, and over, and over._

* * *

New Years.

A beginning from an end. A human construct of time that allows everyone to reinvent themselves— _this year I’ll get a job_ —allows them the perspective of space and distance— _this year I’ll get in shape_ —allows them to cap off those bad habits and bad times with a definite end that’s accepted everywhere _—this year, I’ll be happy_. But isn’t that just what everyone’s asking for? A chance? To be something they weren’t yesterday? That tomorrow can be a beginning, instead of an end?

Cat’s convinced you to come to this _End of the Year Blaze_ that the fraternities throw on the beach; a disconcerting amount of fire and intoxication that cannot be safe—or legal. You hadn’t tried very hard to dissuade her, too enamored by the excitement making her green eyes bright—the stretched smile lubricated with early morning tequila and orange juice.

“Come on, supergirl,” she’d murmured against your lips two mornings past, “don’t you want to end the year right?”

She wants to be _young_ , she’d said while pressing hands against your shoulders and forcing you to shuck the cotton pants and sweater you’d been wearing. “We’re in our twenties, we shouldn’t already be dowdy.” Shorts that ride up uncomfortably and a tank top that doesn’t do much to cover your stomach had been her solution, insistent lips at your pulse had been enough to agree and actually leave the house.

“If I had a stomach like this,” nails scratched down your navel, snagging on the hip-riding line of your shorts, “I’d never wear a shirt.”

Hours in the sun has worn through the energy that permeates the crowd—you’d found a quiet moment to settle into the sand, cat trying her hardest to wrap you around herself. Pulling your arms across her shoulders and leaning her cheek against your collarbones. There’d been dancing—on her part, not yours—and you’d laughed to the point of choking when Max had been upended into a children’s pool full of egg nog. He’d come out sopping wet and fuming—shoving away every helping hand but Marion’s who’d tried her hardest not to laugh at his misfortune.

There’s a vibrancy that you take for granted—the life that thrums and drums through the people around you, the energy of people moving and striking out. College really is a special kind of human condition—the _rage, rage_ of it all mixed with a softer sense of urgency—they have so much they’ve yet to do, so much they dream about. It’s—humbling. Amazing.

It’s—frightening.

“It scares me sometimes.” Cat says quietly into the side of your neck, the light throws most of her face into shadow, but with each breath of life in the flames her green eyes alight.

The bonfire is so much larger than it was the last time you’d turned to follow her gaze. It sits on the beach, easily fifteen feet across, the flames so high you can imagine they’re licking at the few lazy white clouds that drift across the smooth dark sky.

Cat’s flushed and tipsy against you, her body tucking perfectly under your arm, her lips savagely hot against your pulse, where she seems determined to drive you mad with wet kisses, and teasing nips.

Clearing your throat, and tucking your nose into her hair—sandal wood, and vanilla—you close your eyes, “I thought nothing scared Cat Grant.”

She barks a laugh, but it’s sobering—apparently—because she leans away to watch you with fuzzy eyes. The flames dance there; orange and yellow and red, and you feel like a moth that’s forever destined to singe the filament of your wings. She’s blinking too much, swaying back and forth, until she plants a hand on your thigh, and leans toward you.

“Well,” she drawls, jabbing you carelessly in the cheek, before her hand curls around the back of your neck and pulls you into a kiss. “Fooled you, didn’t I? I’m human after all, supergirl.”

Cat Grant kisses like a conqueror.

“I’m scared that our story isn’t going to end how I imagine.” She whispers after what feels like an eternity of silence. She’s quiet, her words softer than the light breeze that picks up strands of her honey churned hair. “That somewhere before the _happily ever after_ we’re going to crumble.” This isn’t a new fear, not in the least. She’s been worrying about some kind of inevitable end since you’ve known her—since she’d yanked Clark out of traffic, and you’d considered caving in a teenage boy’s skull.

She watched her mother with careful eyes and wonders if something cold and unfeeling can be genetic—you try to tell her that it is impossible. That she’s warm, and good, and so much more than she thinks—but truths have no place in fears. Not these kinds. She looks in the mirror and searching for the similarities—the right quirk of the lips, the same lift of the eyebrow. She justifies that her mother looked like a happy child—and a passionate teen—according to photo albums she’d gotten from her grandmother when she’d passed almost a decade prior.

 _She used to be happy too_ , she’d whisper at night, pretending like the dark would keep her secrets. Hold fast to them with silken black fingers and curl them away into the stars. Given to the universe, lost in the constellations.

Swallowing, you nose into the curls behind her ear, “tell me.”

Cat starts, looking over her shoulder to blink owlishly at you—she’s still nursing a red cup full of whatever hard liquor the frat boys decided to bring, and she doesn’t look like she has any intention of slowing down. “How we’ll crumble?”

No—you’re all too familiar with how worlds break, how lives shatter. You’ve no interest in such things. You don’t want logic, and pessimism—you want wonder, and hope, and dreams. “Our happily ever after.”

She smiles, “us, Clark, a beach,” A long pause, you almost think she’s finished, but she’s only stopped to take a long sip from her cup, wincing all the while, “And fireworks.”

You can’t help laughing.

“Are we bringing those with us, or will they be provided?”

Cat doesn’t seem to hear you, or at least she pretends she doesn’t; her hands are motioning like she’s trying to catch the stars. Fingers wiggling, palms skyward, “someplace alive that likes to celebrate.” The fire’s light dances through her fingers like ribbons of life, twisting and coiling like a promising warmth. “Buenos Aires, or Barcelona, or Rio de Janeiro.”

You love her best like this—loose and dreaming. Her eyes bright and bottomless, seeing things you can’t even fathom—seeing a world she longs for. The gilded cage of your ribs have no hope to cease the drumming beat of your martian heart. It swells and burns for her—this woman who you love so much, who fits so well into your arms. “Do you even speak Spanish?”

Cat snorts indignantly, something she would adamantly deny if she was even close to sober.  “Excuse you, Brazil speaks Portuguese.”

“Do you speak Portuguese?” You ask smiling, running fingers through her hair, and laying a light kiss to her jaw—Cat squirms where she’s positioned between your legs, but catches you at the cheeks before you can pull away. She’s half turned to you now, her hip digging awkwardly into your thigh, but you forget that easily when she kisses you, hands a little too intimate for a public—well-populated—beach.

She smiles at the dazed look you must have on your face, “no, but being factually correct is important, thank you very much.” Her words are all there, are all correct—but the drawling slur has taken up residence at the edges of her voice. Her lopsided smile is endearing, her frisky hands are enamoring—

—you’re so gone on this human woman.

This force of nature.

Clearing your voice, you try to get back to the conversation— _try_ , being the optimum word. “Okay, so we learn Spanish—or _Portuguese_ —and buy a beach house—”

Cat interrupts, setting the facts straight in her perfect world, “we’ll travel, too.”

Only a slight back-pedal needed, “— _rent_ a beach house.” It sounds nice—the sun, the waves, the fresh air. You’re tumbling into this idyllic world, this perfect ending. “Where’ll we work?” With pursed lips and a furrowed brow, Cat ponders it for a moment—just a moment.

“I’ll write freelance—I’m planning to discover a never before seen marsupial, or some weird special little flower.” The plucking of a guitar bristles in the night, floating on the breeze and with the waves—someone’s singing the lost notes of some edge of the world song. Some impossible melody that just constricts and consumes—it’ll be disappointed to know you aren’t it’s for the taking. The woman in your arms possesses each and every one of your cells— _she owns you_. Like how the sun owns its warmth, or the night owns its peace—something intangible, but true.

Cat smiles wide, eyes bright and she’s tumbling away from you—fingers hooking in the loops of your pants—she’s trying to get you to your feet, and you allow it. Following in her wake like a broken wave, lost at sea, crumbling and slipping seamlessly into a much bigger whole—the vastness of an ocean, the depth of everything below.

Fingers curl into your hair, soothing the nape of your neck with light scratches of short fingernails, she’s humming along to the song, her lips vibrating against the side of your neck. You have two left feet, and no amount of alien grace could help you on the shifting grains of sand. You don’t get to dance with Cat often—between classes, work and family there’s almost no time left over for anything else. No time to simply hear the steady thud of Cat’s heart.

“Not sure something like that can be put on the five year plan,” you whisper, lips against the shell of her ear—grinning to yourself when she shivers, knowing it has nothing to do with the ocean breeze.

The dragging pads of fingers down the slope of your neck is the notes of a snake charmer’s song. It lulls you, pulls you forward—Cat’s turned, head tipped back onto your shoulder, hand gripping tight to your hair to keep your lips against her ear. She’s breathing heavily, guiding your left hand along the lean muscles of her thigh, snagging the loose drift of her skirt. You’re mesmerized, breathing deep and snagging the edge of her ear with eager teeth.

She’s answering you—you don’t remember what you’d said. “Shh, this is our ideal happy ending.” Nodding, mindless and burning up inside, you wonder if this is how the sun feels—that foreign yellow mass that pours into you every morning, that whispers along your skin and through your muscles. _Breath_ , it says, _drink_ , it pleads—and you’re helpless to do anything but what it requests.

You can feel eyes on you, pressing at your edges. You hear the words on the air even if you aren’t focusing on them, the white static that comes with living on earth— _I didn’t know they were together_ —just faceless voices in the dark, without meaning, without hold— _that’s Cat Grant, she’s in my Political Science class_. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when hips are pressing into you, and hands and coaxing you to wrap around Cat like if you press hard enough— _they’re beautiful_ —you might merge, your edges molding and twisting together.

Thunder at the horizon, edging in from the darkest parts of the sky—flashes in the night as lightning arcs and crashes into the distant waves. “And what do I do?” Your voice is rough, and low, and meant for bedrooms—not beaches—but you’re lulled and formless. “In this happy ending.” The air tastes like rain and you’re waiting on the downpour—the end to these final moments and the beginning to the next.

“ _You_ , obviously, build water wells for the underprivileged. Use that big brain of yours to help people—I’m sure Lorde’ll help, if he manages to find a heart on discount he could borrow, since he lacks one of his own.” The loose fabric of her skirt is still snagged by your hand, but you don’t go any higher, don’t trip up the place you _desperately_ want to—later, when you’re alone and ringing in the new year _right_. Cat doesn’t seem to have the desire to wait that you do, the hand holding your drags your fingers an inch higher. You hear the low keen at the back of her throat, the way her hip jag insistently.

You don’t know how she’s concentrating on talking, you can only feel the tantalizing warmth of her skin under your hand. She whines when you take your hand away, allowing the skirt to fall back into its modest length—she’s laughing though, surely amused by the red on your cheeks and the stammer in your words.

“M—Max has a heart, he’s just—misunderstood.” You try, huffing through her joy.

Spinning away from you, full to the brim with cheer, she’s dragging you from the center of attention, toward the benches further from the flames. “ _Sharks_ are misunderstood, supergirl; Max is trouble.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, isn’t forced—it’s simple and breathable. Cat’s talking to someone you recognize vaguely from one class or another, and you can only see how her lips form the words—bowing slightly, tongue flicking out to catch her upper lip when she’s thinking. The way her jaw tenses when she’s considering _not_ saying what she’s going to inherently say anyway—all of it. All the little things that are impossible to not notice.

When it’s just the two of you again, she turns to you, blinking slowly to bring you into focus and then there’s a—furrow in her brow, a little worry in the pluck of her lips. Like she’s realized something, like she’s considering _not_ saying what she’s obviously going to say anyway.

“Maybe this year we’ll talk about what we don’t talk about.” Cat suggests.

You aren’t expecting _that_.

“I don’t—what does that even mean?” You hedge.

“I notice, you know,” the drawling quality let’s you know she might not remember this tomorrow, that it’ll get lost in the drumming haze that clouds her when she gets a little _too_ heavy handed with the spirits. But there’s an honesty in what she’s saying that is— _bracing_ —it lingers like a promise that isn’t being made, but you can’t help hearing it nonetheless. She’s turning to you, forehead on your shoulder and arms wrapped around you, forcing your arms to pull her close—shaking off the shivers that only have a little to do with the night air. “The things I’m not supposed to. The things that don’t add up.”

Her hand presses against your stomach below the hem of your shirt, fingers crooking and itching at your stomach, dragging the fabric upward and you’re getting hot at the collar, cheeks flushing—but she lets the fabric fall away from her hold and instead pulls something from the neck of your shirt. The chain you always have around your neck—the pendant your mother had slipped over your head when she’d told you goodbye—when she’s shipped you through the stars. But Cat only rubs her finger tip over that—familiar as it is—and instead plucks at the three rings that nestle on either of its sides.

“These, for instance.” They’re warm and glinting, and you remember how sure Mister Callaghan had been when he’d given them to you— _she’ll say yes, whenever you ask_. How he’d _known_. You know she’s seen you rubbing them, you know she isn’t fool enough to not see the longing, and the desire—but it’s something you can’t promise yet, because there’s—there’s truths, and then there’s _truths_. The things that haunt, and cloy, and ruin—the things you don’t want to admit. That might shatter and break everything.

“Th—those are—,” you try, but she rubs a thumb over your lips, stopping you.

“You can tell me; right now,” she’s says, “Start the year off right.”

You want to tell her everything, you want to trust the love in her eyes and the soft promise of her skin beneath your hands. She’s never done anything to make you think this isn’t forever, that she’d turn away—but you’re broken inside, even if you don’t want to realize it. There’s whole parts of you missing, carved out pieces that you’re filling in with make-shift promises and horrible facsimiles of truth. Cat loves you—you love her, but maybe she only love this idea of you—this made up version of a person that isn’t exactly what you are.

Deep down— _deep_ down—you know that isn’t true, but you can’t scratch that deep right now, you can’t dig and carve and burn away the parts that you’ve built to keep you alive, to keep you moving forward. If you tell the truth, there’s nowhere to hide—no façade you can tuck behind and pretend for a while. You’ll never be able to shut your higher mind off and imagine that you _are_ human, that you’re just like everyone else—clambering through the day to get to tomorrow. You’ll _always_ be Kara Zor El, the last one to remember, the product of an obliterated race—alone on a planet of people.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you say, making your lips curve upward, making your eyes brighten, because you can’t fall victim to this planet’s construct of time—to endings and beginnings. _Rao_ thunders in your chest and in your bones, telling you that it should be the middle of the celestial cycle, that there is nothing beginning, nothing ending. Just— _being_. Ends don’t happen with ball drops and fireworks—they’re the death throes of a whole planet, the shifting plates of continents and the boiling spill of seas.

The end of something is—it’s _silent_.

Cat’s watching you with eyes that say _you’re lying_ , but she doesn’t call you on it, she doesn’t shake her head and frown—she just smiles like she can’t help herself. Hands cooling in the night, fingers insistent where she holds your cheeks—you want to apologize, you want to take your words back. There’s a wryness to her expression now, something coupled with the milky unfocus of her eyes and the liquid shine to her lips— _crash_ —thunder rumbles overhead, and the sky bristles as the lightning chases the howl.

“I love you,” you say instead, because that’s a truth that takes no effort to say—it’s no trouble to split the static air with these truths. The rain doesn’t start slow, it doesn’t ease in—the sky cracks open and deluges of rain pours down. Your hair is plastered to your face in moments, and you slick cat’s bangs away from her eyes so that even in the manic walls of water, you can make out the green of her eyes. The bon fire sputters and chokes, plumbs of smoke coughing up into the sky as it hisses to death. The logs and branched groan, the scent of charred wood in the air.

But Cat doesn’t have any mind for any of that, she’s counting down— _ten_ —the slow methodical tally of something defined ending— _nine_. She’s leaning into you, her body pressing against yours, ignoring how everyone’s barking out laughter around you— _eight_ —trying to pull coats out and covering themselves while they sing and chant.

Rao, she’s beautiful. She’s sun soaked, even in the dark, it’s nothing to do with coloring and everything to do with who she is—in how her lips draw a warmth from inside your chest, how her eyes ignite something intangible inside you. _Seven_ —your hands find the small of her back, pulling her closer so that you can’t even see her lips moving, can’t hear the whisper soft count down. _Six_ —forehead to forehead, you’re awash in liquid green, feeling alive, and hopeful, and braver for these few moments.

 _Five_ —maybe she’s right, maybe this year can be a beginning, be some kind of new start to the entirety of your life. Mister Callaghan had been adamant that people were puzzles, made of pieces even if the whole picture didn’t always seem clear at the start. _Four_ —maybe you’re still looking for pieces, maybe you’ll find the ones you need to make that lingering doubt in Cat’s eyes go away, the little part that says _I know_.

The fear inside that is illogical and consuming, that catches the truth at the back of your throat— _three_ —that stops you from doing what you know you _want_ to. You must pull away slightly, lost in thought, because Cat’s fingers are hooking at your jaw and pulling you closer, keeping your forehead pressed against her. _Two_ —and she smiles, just for you, lips caught at the edge of one word, tipping into the next. Rao, this woman. This woman who you’d travelled lightyears to find—who’d been here waiting, who’d reeled you in when you fought the current.

What’re the chances? One in a million—one in a billion—one in a trillion.

 _One_.

“Happy new year,” she’s kissing you before you can say it in return.

Maybe it’s time you start believing in beginnings, and not just ends.


	59. snap shot 59. ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (ALEX).** _No one goes out thinking "tonight's going to be my last." It seems so abstract when other people die, when co-workers or family pass. There's a hole carving sadness, but you can still be functional, still be strong._

* * *

You’re going to die on a Thursday.

You hate Thursdays.

Not for any particular reason—but they always seem to somehow be the _worst_ day of the week. Like some little reminder goes off in the criminal mind to make sure that they get all their law breaking done before the weekend. Even when you have Thursday off—you have _this_ Thursday off, technically—something always comes up and ruins whatever plans you may have had. Not that you really had much planned today—you were probably going to stop by and see Cat and Carter before you made the trip over to Kara’s still disturbingly untouched apartment.

But no, you’re not going to be able to do any of that—because you’re going to die.

Inconvenient.

The real truth of the matter doesn’t kick in until you’re strapping the air mask to the face of the little boy on the aisle seat—his mother working on his younger sibling. You see the red and blue sweatshirt he’s wearing, and something in your chest tightens because—because—well, Clark’s too far away, and the plane isn’t high enough to even bother hoping that he’ll make it. The entire cabin rumbles as another engine explodes—spitting out fire into the dark, coughing it down onto the buildings below.

Everyone’s screaming and panicking, and you unbuckle yourself to make sure that the elderly couple in front of you can get their belts on properly. Whatever slightly higher chance of survival the security belt offers is worth it now. The air attendants are in the galley, holding onto the receiver for dear life—the air marshal giving himself away with how he seems to be the only other people who isn’t clambering to insanity in a tight spiral.

He probably hates Thursdays too—you wish you could ask him.

You’re just making it back to your seat—with your mask on—when the final engine implodes and half the wing goes with it. There’s very little to focus on but the glittering lights below—if you had your mobile anywhere readily accessible, you’d call your mother. You’d tell her you love her—tell her goodbye. You know it keeps her up at night that your father never got the chance—that she plays their last conversations over and over to find closure.

What had been the last thing you said to her?

 _I’m not getting a cat_ , you’d been talking to her in the hotel lobby, before you’d gotten in the cab for the airport—she’d wanted you to get a pet, said it would help with whatever loneliness she saw in you whenever she badgered you about being alone. _Maybe I like being alone._ What had she said in response? You remember it’d made you huff, and smile—what was it—what was it—

“No one likes being alone, Alex,” that was it, “I love you.”

Had you said it back? You’re pretty sure you did, but right now the only thing in your ears is the struggling engine and the clattering of metal flicking off in to the dark—whole parts of the plane removing themselves. It whines as it begins its spiral— _death roll_ , no, that’s what a crocodile does—though, what’s the difference? You see the lights of the city pass once—twice—and all the luggage from the overhead compartments falls through the air, clocking people in the head, imploding in a cloud of underwear and novelty tee-shirts _I <3 Geneva_ printed on nearly everything.

Good to know even Europe is tacky with tourism.

Just as you close your eyes and focus on your breathing—the plane levels out. It whirrs and warbles, but when you look out the window, its flight properly—wing a mess of sparking flames, but it seems to be paying no attention to its predicament. Inverting itself harshly to fit through the A-gap in the National City Bridge, and then puttering harshly to a stop in the water. It floats volatilely for a moment, rocking back and forth—but there’s no inertia, no force.

It just—rests there.

You hear _Superman_ being whispered like a chasing echo through the dust filled cabin of the plane—the air thick with the contained concessional force needed to spring free the air masks. You can hear how the water sloshes violently against the outside of the hull, lapping and rocking—but the plane stays decently steady, it’s buoyancy no longer a cause for concern. “I saw him!” A young boy says grinning, his oxygen mask hanging loosely around his neck, face pressed into the window to his side, hands braced and eyes bright—waiting for his hero to emerge.

“I saw him too,” this time it’s a woman, old enough to no longer look for heroes no longer unaware of just what the world can do without consequence, but somehow her face is bright. Lips that are chapped and seem more comfortable pressed into a severe line are pull upward awkwardly into a smile that looks both strained, and effortless. As if she isn’t used to smiling, but suddenly can’t help herself.

You are in your seat.

Oxygen mask forgotten in your lap, jacket rumpled and shoes lost to the turbulence. There’s so much going on around you, there’s no way to settle in silence, but you can’t stop marking your way through the scenario. Attaching bullet points and probabilities to every angle. Your heart is a jack rabbit inside your chest, but you can ignore that because it’s a completely human response to nearly dying. Fear is natural.

You’re dragged from your thoughts by everyone fighting their way to the right side of the plane, children climbing over seats and adults alike to press faces into windows—adults clambering and shoving to glimpse whatever is happening out there. You’re still afraid, but now it has nothing to do with planes falling out of the sky, no—it’s something deeper and more abstract than that.

It has to do with who saved the plane.

She’s standing on the wing of the plane, feet bare and shoulders slouched—her back is to the cabin of the plane, and the two hundred eager eyes resting on her. There’s no way to miss how thin she is, soaked to the bone with clothes plastered tight to her frame—all long arms and legs, wide shoulders and trim waist. The jacket is crimson, darker red now because of water, but the symbol emblazoned upon the Under Armor sweatshirt is unmistakable. The golden _S_ that has been obsessively marketed for the last few years—ever since Clark decided to go into the family business of crime fighting.

The sweatshirt is identical to the one the boy is wearing two seats ahead of you—you watch how he fingers the fabric reverently, like somehow it could impact upon him the abilities of those whose crest that belonged to.

You want to tell her she’s an idiot—that she’s a _fool_ , but there’s a twisted love in your heart that thumps for this particular alien. After all—you’d been the one to find her. Barely twelve and freshly orphaned, she’d dug herself in then, even if you hadn’t been completely aware. No, that had come years later when she’d huffed and puffed. You’d had the hardest time understanding what she’d been capable of then—because she was sweet, and shy, and tried so hard to be good. Like a puppy trying to be a guard dog—but, you suppose, puppies grow up.

“That’s not Superman,” one of the passengers just behind you says, their voice a low garble from behind the mask they still have strapped to their face. Kara’s back is to the plane, but the helicopter spotlight dances across her once—twice—and then settles, illuminating the primary colors of her clothes. Luckily the bright lights throws her face under the hood into darker shadow, she twists and you can only imagine how bright it seems to her—someone who’s gotten so used to the dark.

“It’s a girl,” the boy says in awe, still rubbing the fabric of his sweatshirt between his fingertips; the barked orders of the police boat seem to snap Kara out of whatever daze she’s in because with a suddenly present burst of power—she was gone. The plane groans and rocks, nearly rolling wing down until its innate buoyancy kept it properly flat. The police are swarming and the evacuation slide is popped—it snapped and sizzles when it inflates, but you can only think of soaked through blue and red—of lost blue eyes and golden hair.

An hour later, you’re standing just off to the side of the gathered group being picked up by relatives and friends—your phone is pressed to your ear, but you can barely hear what Hank’s saying. He’s grumbling more than usual, which usually isn’t a good sign—but _totally_ average for Thursdays. As soon as he lets you know a team will be dispatched, you consider who to call next.

It’s a pretty easy choice—only one ring before Cat picks up.

“I’m watching it right now,”


	60. snap shot 60. ( -, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK)**. _You thought about being a writer when you were in high school; to write whole lives in the pages of some great American novel. Tuck life lessons away in passages and prose. But then journalism had stolen your heart, the idea of telling the truth above all else._ // prompt: anonymous.

* * *

From what you’ve been able to gather over the years—Earth is so different to Krypton. In ways that are impossible to understand unless you’d been there—and you hadn’t. You’d only been an infant when the planet rumbled, and the sky cracked—you’d listened to Kara totter aimlessly through a poet’s description of how her planet died one night when you’d had to pick her up from having too much martian-whiskey. She’d told you about how red the ground was, how orange the sky could be—how there was a single moment at the edge of the day when the sky flashed pure white.

Krypton didn’t have nights—at least not how earth thinks of them. Their red dwarf was so large, and so close, that there was never a moment when it “set”; only tilted away for a few moments in you were in exactly the right place. A vacation destination she’d regaled you with—how her father (and your father) would take her to the planet’s center; the line that could see this darkness for only the equivalent of seventeen earth minutes. She’d told you about how the stars looks different planet side, they glittered and shined, and seemed more _alive_ somehow.

“I wish you could see them,” she’d said, face pressed against your shoulder, eyes only half open—arm extended as she traced the invisible constellations only she could see. “Even just once.” You wanted to, for her, but you never had that crushing pressure in your chest that’s accompanied with a dead race—you didn’t have the culture of another planet crammed into the forgotten parts of your brain, just waiting for a moment to burst free. You can pretend sometimes, you can empathize—but it isn’t the same, not when you see time and again how your cousin’s face crumbles and her eyes go dark.

Maybe she’s like that perfect spot on Krypton—daylight for all but seventeen minutes.

Camera tucked into your jacket, hands shoved casually into pockets, you watch the rich and powerful flitting in and out of the building across the street from you. You can imagine the towering spires she’d describe to you—crystal spikes shot into the amber colored sky, offset by the burnt orange of the horizon and the brilliant red of the ground. The fountain really broke the image—powerful arches of water, lights set below the rims, something intentionally minimalistic to avoid looking gaudy and ostentatious.

The security of the front door was impressive—locks, and guards, and doormen—you’d been staking out the entrance for the last fifteen minutes, watching the deference of well-known faces going in and out. Men in suits, women in designer dresses—skirting out of the concrete courtyard, the slanted ramp for the underground parking garage is tucked back behind a reinforced gate. A booth with two armed security guards perched against the side of the building. You know this building well—much longer than the last fifteen minutes—and you know how you’re going to get inside without being detected. The window about fifteen feet off the ground, above the garage’s security booth.

Hands still in pockets, bag tightened until it was flush against your chest, you casually stroll down the sidewalk—as casual as a six foot four man can be, that is. The two guards are flicking through security feeds—underground garage, lobby, conference room, gym—and just as the turn to check the actual gate itself, you press off against the ground and land _gently_ on the booth’s roof. The camera just beside you hear whirrs loudly, turning back and forth, but you’re just out of its view—luckily. You’d forgotten about that one. The busy people walking past on the street don’t even have time to lift their eyes and see the potential break in about to happen—don’t see how you lift off and slide through the unlatched window and into an empty office.

It’s filled with boxes and a fair amount of dust, but that doesn’t matter—you’re in. Grinning to yourself, you unzip your jacket and congratulate yourself on a successful infiltration—and Perry was always saying that you didn’t have it in you to do the hard pressed journalism that some of the other reporters do. Just as you’re about to open the door and step out into the hall, it’s thrown open from the opposite side—you step back off balance, arms pin-wheeling to keep yourself upright. In the open doorway the _largest_ human you’ve ever seen is crossing his arms, eyebrows raised and grin smug.

“Thought we didn’t see you strolling down to the garage?” The man asks in a voice at least two octaves higher than what most would expect to come out of such a well-muscled wall of a man. Cursing, you forgot the camera that they installed on the corner of the building that pans over the courtyard and toward the garage entrance.

“Shit,” you laugh, “I forgot that one.”

He sighs, stepping back to allow you out of the room—you let your hands fall to your sides and step around the plethora of boxes keeping you company in the abandoned office. The security guard closes the door and locks it with an impressive set of keys—he gives you the side eye and you raise your hands again in placation.

“Miss Grant asked us to apprehend you if you tried breaking in again,” he explains, “She doesn’t like the precedent it sends if anyone sees you scaling the side of the building.”

“I didn’t _scale_ the building, she needs to stop being dramatic.”

“That window is easily twenty feet off the ground, Mister Callaghan.” He offers before you’re led out into the lobby. The guard’s name is Michael, and this isn’t the first time he’s caught you sneaking in—you’ve been doing it for the better part of ten years. It was a game that you’re apparently incapable of growing out of. The neighbors in the lobby watch you with half-narrowed eyes as you’re lead to the elevator in the back of the junction. The penthouse’s elevator. “She’d much prefer it if you used your keycard and the private elevator.”

Digging through your pockets, you unearth your wallet and the heavy plated card inside it—swiping it through the keypad, and punching in a code the doors ding open. “You win this time, Michael.” You say stepping inside the lift, gesturing wildly in his direction with the card.

With the somber air of a smug little girl Michael tucks his hands at his lower back and smiles, “I win every time, Mister Callaghan.”

“You’re pretty cheeky today.”

The guard just turns to go back to his post, “tell your cousin I say hello.”

The doors slide shut and you’re welcomed with silence—Cat had the speakers removed after one too many hangovers made worse by bad and repetitive music in the morning ride down. Playing your childish game of breaking and entering had been an attempt to distract yourself from what you were here to do—and _who_ you were here to see. You’d stopped by National City a few times in the last few weeks, but you never managed to make it all the way to the penthouse apartment where you knew _she_ was. It was disconcerting, and unbalancing, but you’d justified yourself by saying you had so much to do. Repair Metropolis, care for Lois, and figure out how to get _your_ cousin back.

But Cat had left a scathing voicemail that had woken you up this morning— _listen, Heathen, I know you don’t deal well with change, and I know you get that from me, but if your ass isn’t in National City by lunch, I’m coming to get you myself_. You’d heard the clink of ice and the creak of her office chair and knew she’d slept at her office, knew she’d barricaded herself behind paperwork and information until she was tired enough—or drunk enough—to sleep.

If she’d even managed that.

All the anger had slid away like the mask it was, leaving the exhaustion behind to fill her voice. _I can’t—I need—Clark, can you do this for me?_

There’d been a long drawn out silence, and you’d held your breath waiting for her to continue, but there was just a sigh on the other end, until the call dropped. You know a lot is going on, and you feel bad—the ache in your chest a pain that has nothing to do with bullets or knives—but the kind that makes you crinkle at the edges because you know you’re folding. You just don’t have Kara’s posture under pressure, you don’t have that _something_ inside that kept her upright, and pushed her forward until she could do it on her own.

The elevator arrives on the top floor and opens up to a short well decorated hallway, double set of doors at the end of the hall are one of two doorways; the other much smaller and on the opposite wall. Your hands are back in your pockets, camera feeling heavier than a tanker truck—a weight around your neck that just makes your shoulders slump a little.

Carter’s been texting you nearly non-stop, telling you little facts and little details— _they like the same movies_ —and you’d been dutifully responding— _they both hate meatloaf_ —like it didn’t makes something inside you crawl. _They smile the same, kind of—especially for mom_. Standing in front of the door you listen carefully, trying to pin-point exactly where she is—and that’s when you hear it. The whoosh that used to lull you to sleep at night, that little gasping valve that only your cousin has—that little vibration in her chest that says _home_.

Not because of some long dead planet, but because she used to read you Peter Pan in a basement, and walk you to school every morning. _Have a good day, Kal,_ she’d say quietly enough that only you could hear her. She did that sometimes when you were both so young—when no one else was around, she’d call you _Kal_ , a name that you’d had someplace else. Someplace lightyears away.

You must stand there for too long—she must hear your own whispering valve, because the door opens swiftly, and she’s smiling at you.

“Hey, Kal.”

God, she’s so—so— _young_. It isn’t even that she’s physically younger, it’s how she holds herself, the way she seems to take up less space than your cousin. Eyes blue, and hair blonde, all the actual markers are there and it’s—confounding. She’s wearing a shirt that Cat had probably bought for your cousin in the hopes that she could positively change her love for pastels—it didn’t happen. A soft looking blue shirt and denims that needed to be cuffed twice above unsurprisingly dainty feet. Nails painted some shade of maroon.

She’s smiling like she recognizes you, it’s that little widening of her eyes, that arch of her brows—your cousin did the same thing. It was how her face would transform, shucking the sadness because inside and above that pragmatic anger and that boiling sadness, she’s happy. Content in a way that nesting birds and piles of puppies are. _This is mine_ , it says, _if only for now. This is mine._ That’s what those stories in the basement had been, she’d held you close—still only a child, the both of you—and didn’t think about extinct races or far of red stars. _This is mine_.

“Hey—uh, hey,” you stumble, awkward and unsure, which only makes her smile wider and something in your chest eases. Like the phantom hand that had been squeezing your heart simply stopped, uncurling wrought iron fingers and letting you breathe properly. “How’s your thirty-five and a half million dollar prison treating you?”

“More decorative pillows that I expected,” she says, stepping back to let you in.

“Cat went through a phase,” you reply, “And by phase, I mean her entire life. You should have seen her bedroom at her mother’s house, I don’t think there was a single surface that wasn’t covered in pillows.” Hands in pocket, camera secured—like some kind of check list you can’t remove from your brain. Something to ease your nerves and settle your heart. She’s closing the door behind you and clicking to lock into place—the security system is off, you don’t hear the soft _beep_ from the box on the wall beside the screen showing the hallway on the other side of the door.

“That’s still blowing my mind,” she exhales while walking toward the kitchen, turning around half way to extend her arms—a big disbelieving motion that’s more comical than practical. “I can’t believe Miss Grant _raised_ you. I mean—I just saw her checking your butt out, like, yesterday.” She’s obviously talking more to herself, but she turns to you with everything about her open face saying _can you believe this_ , but you’re caught up on something out.

“Wait, wait—hold on, who did what now to my butt?” You feel _violated_ , in that way that happens far too often with Cat—people assuming you’re dating long before they guess anything familial. She’d fly into Metropolis for the weekend while you were in college and there’d be some gossip site posting pictures you walking her to her car with the caption _Cat’s New Man?_

“Not—not _this_ Miss Grant— _my_ Miss Grant.” She says quickly, waving her hands like it could remove the last thing she said from your mind—it couldn’t. Her eyes widen again, and her hands wave even faster, if that was possible. “Not that she _mine_ , no, no—she’s her own person. Her own—person.” She’s running out of steam, and is slumping back against the couch and you can’t help _laughing_ , because there’s something so _light_ and airy about her. Like whatever weight she’s carrying is impossibly lighter than the one your cousin lugs around.

“I get it.” On the coffee table is the fourth Harry Potter book, a mug of hot chocolate, and the lead-lined glasses that she’d probably gotten from Carter. The picture wall looked weird without the six photos that were missing—you know why they were taken down, but somehow it hurt to see them missing. “So, this is really weird, right? Or does dimensional travel happen to you a lot?”

“Oh, no, this is so weird—the weirdest. I mean, I have this friend Barry who travels dimensions, and it seems pretty typical for him. But for me? Not so much.” She’s loosening up at the shoulders, but can’t stop the way her eyes gravitate to the open balcony—and the skyline of National City beyond it. There’s a yearning in her that’s thick and heavy and makes her slouch just a little. She seems so small and delicate—even if you know she’s anything but—and you just want to make her smile. Like she did when you opened the door.

“How about we go for a walk?” You suggest, knowing Cat’s going to have your head for this.

Starting, she turns to look at you, hope sitting so beautifully on her face—like you’re giving her everything she could ask for and more. As nice as the apartment is, you know she wants to spend some time outside. Maybe this girl—young woman?—is like you cousin in that sense. Long walks to shed the weight and clear her head.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to leave—I don’t want to make anything more difficult for Miss Grant, she’s already so—,” she pausing, eyebrows furrowing and her eyes going soft. “—sad.”

“Cat’ll be fine. Trust me, this is a cake walk for her.” A sad alcohol soaked cake walk of nightmares.

 It takes ten more minutes of convincing until you’ve corralled her into some shoes and out the door into the elevator—twirling the keys around your finger on the ride down, the silence seems so much heavier when sharing the lift with someone. “So,” you begin. “You’re Kara Danvers.”

She blinks, “I am. You’re Clark—Grant?”

“Callaghan; my cousin and I took the last name of the man who helped raise us.” You realize it’s been ages since you’ve thought of the elderly man who became your grandfather—so much had happened since his death, so much aching hurt and sudden lose that just made everything seem banal before it. “He owned a bookstore downtown, do you want to see it?” You know Carter’s there tending to the store—he’d finally gotten Cat to agree to let him have a part time job across the city.

“Absolutely,” she’s brightening again, and it makes you glad.

“So, should I call you Kara, or Miss Danvers?”

“Kara, definitely Kara,” she explains, hands moving with her words again, and you know it’s absolutely endearing. She’s adorable, in a bright and bubbly kind of way. She pauses, “Unless that’s weird for you? Is that weird for you?”

Shaking your head as the doors open, “Not weird. Alright, definitely Kara, first things first. My cousin is on some mission to make every tenant in the building like her, so prepare for a ridiculous amount of greetings.” You can see the almost militaristic line up of men with briefcases and women in expensive dresses. Kara does pretty well with being overly enthusiastic and engaged, asking about families—only getting it blatantly wrong twice—and making the board room business men laugh. When they file away—surely to do more important things—Michael the security guard grins smugly at you, before it softens for Kara.

“Afternoon Miss Grant,” the guard says happily, “Your wife said you hadn’t been feeling well; glad to see you up and about.” Abort, abort—you _know_ Cat hadn’t gotten into specifics, and you _know_ she didn’t mention who exactly your cousin was to her. Kara looks startled, and then there’s a dawning realization on her face that spark and slinks, and you want to back away because she’s turning to look at you with open blue eyes asking questions. Her mouth trying to form words and not quiet making the whole effort.

“Hey, Mike! Good seeing you again! Gonna get my cousin out into the sun. Get that vitamin D, you know?” You’re talking loudly, but you can’t stop yourself—arm around Kara’s shoulders, you direct her toward the front door and out into the courtyard. She’s pretty compliant, until she seems to realize what exactly just happened, and she digs her heels in—no, literally, her heels crack the cement, and you stumble past her suddenly _immobile_ form.

“Clark,” she says you name with all the _explain this_ that’s in the flushed cheeks of her face and the blue of her eyes.

“So,” you exhale, “I’m sure you know Cat isn’t the most _sharing_ of people; so I’m going to tell you a story. Just—think of it as a story.” Because this girl’s world was being up-ended, and she was going to go home to people with similar faces, and similar names, and she’d have lingering moments of thinking “In another world you’re…” —you want to know that story. You want to know what happened in the world where you were older than your cousin that had you working _with_ Cat and not raised by her. It seems an impossible world.

“This isn’t a _story_ , Clark. It’s her life.” The way she says _her_ has such influence, like she’s a shadow hanging over Kara’s shoulder.

“It’s a story, Kara. Because this is just—it’s just one possibility. This isn’t like flipping a coin—there isn’t just _this_ or _that_. One story out of a million.” You have to believe that, but it isn’t something heart warmed and proper, because this is your life. You can’t close your eyes and think of all the ways this could be different—all the moments that only had to change slightly before whole new lifetimes emerged. What if your cousin had never come looking for you? What if she’d never stopped in the _Bruised Apple_? What if Cat hadn’t pulled you out of traffic? What if your cousin had never become _the Spectre_? What if, what if, what if.

The sun is warm and bright, sinking into your skin and burning from the inside—you see how she inhales deeply, almost breathing in the sunlight. She isn’t as tan as your cousin you can see that now that she’s actually outside—she’s smaller, in both height and general frame, but she seems just as solid. Flicking the catch on the edge of your lens your camera bursts to life, and you lift it up to your eye—she’s walking in front of the fountain, turning to look at you once she realizes you aren’t walking beside her anymore. _Click_. You snap the photograph, and then another when she can’t help smiling— _click, click_. Lowering it, you close the distance between you and shove your hands back into your pockets.

So you tell her a story. About how Peter Pan and Wendy Darling raised a little lost boy in Neverland—about how two children themselves raised a child together without ever putting a label on it. Two teenage girls who were this boy’s mother in everything but title—everything but solid genetics. How these two girls fell in love when they were still in high school, how they shared their first kiss on the roof of a bookstore on the Fourth of July. You’ve always wanted to put their story into words—if not exactly about them, the _feeling_ of them—the way they bent, and molded, and broke around each other until you can’t discern which broken piece belonged to who.

“You make them seem like soulmates,” there’s an awe to her voice, a soft curve to her words.

“Not soulmates—God, Cat would throw a fit. _I don’t like the implication that we’re not whole in our own right_. No, they’re—they choose each other every morning. The life they’d lived together made them perfect for each other—they gave enough at their edges to somehow fit together.” Your words are accompanied with a hapless shrug because you don’t know how to explain to someone with your cousin’s face that there was no one in any world meant for either of them—except each other. Two girls who’ve loved the other since they were children—three decades spanning dimensions.

You tell her how they broke for a little while—not completely, but in ways that were difficult to measure out in apologies. In missed nights and withheld truths. In assumptions shattered and miles of separation. “They loved each other, even then—but when someone’s world expands so quickly, and so intimately, they balk and withdraw.” Cat’s world had splintered and cracked and when she held it in her hands and looked at it she only saw darkness at its edges—a black filled with all the things they didn’t know. A darkness that made the bristling bright star at the center—her love for Kara, her love for you—work and stretch and try to illuminate that place in her chest.

“And after a while they were scared.” You can only guess, you can only use the knowledge you have of these two complicated women and their innate fears. “They’d come back together, in most of the same ways that they were before—certain things had changed, but, was it really so different?” So you talk about how two stars with their own gravitational pull danced around each other—pulling and pushing, their comet tails mingling and becoming one even if they refused to get any closer. Why flirt with destruction? Why test the boundaries of their resolve? They had the other—mostly, if not completely.

And wasn’t that better? To have some of a person, instead of none of them?

“That’s so sad,” Kara says, her arms crossing over her stomach like she’s cold, though you know that isn’t possible. Her eyes are wet, tears caught in her lashes and she’s breathing heavily through her nose, lips pressed together.

“I think they tried to forget that they were sad—because they were happy too, don’t think they weren’t. They laughed, and smiled, and they—they _had_ each other, and it was hard to explain to other people. There wasn’t a _term_ for the person who defined them almost as much as they themselves did.” It was almost a gift from above that Kassidy had been the one who stuck around—that he was the one responsible for one of the greatest things in your life—Cat’s life, you’re cousin’s life. He understood in his own way—he understood who your cousin was to Cat.

You fall into a silence. Walking side by side through the busy streets of National City, listening to the white noise of a busy neighborhood—trucks backing up, people honking, men with fliers yelling at passersby, and just—the life being lived. You know your cousin got lost in it sometimes—when she was young, and after she came back—unsure in the noise because inside her with a quiet that was hard to describe. It was in her eyes sometimes—a placid blue, a sincere dark that just asked for _a moment_. Glancing to your side, Kara’s eyes are bright and glinting with the few tears determined to stay in her lashes—they’re alive and whirling. More human, in a way. Like she kept things in her gaze she wasn’t afraid to give away for free—like she didn’t fear the retribution of an unwarranted understanding.

“So, I told you about them—and by proxy, me—what’s your story?” You want to know about this world you have the barest details of. Of a spaceship knocked into the phantom zone for _decades_ , to a girl who lives a completely different life. “Did we live with Alex? Don’t think I didn’t notice your last name is Danvers.” You grin, nudging her with your shoulder, and she smiles back—pushing you a little harder in the arm until you stumble into a rather large jogging man. You’re stumbling out apologies while fixing your glasses, glaring half-heartedly at her while you settle back in beside her.

“Uh, yeah—I am, I mean. They took care of me.” She says, eyebrows pinches.

“The Danvers? They’re good people. Eliza doesn’t mind making extra food when we stop by—and I don’t know if Cat would’ve—” _made it_ , almost comes out but you stop. Trying not to think about those months following your cousin’s _death_. How you were three-thousand miles away, and Cat totted on a knife’s edge of alcoholism and saying she was _alright_. “Anyway, Alex and Cat are tight.”

Something in Kara’s face shifts, a surprised little tilt of her chin. Like this is interesting information. “Yeah, you—well, not _you_ -you, but my Clark—uh, my cousin. He dropped me off with them and asked them to look after me.” She doesn’t notice how you get quiet—talking about her sister, and her foster mother—but something cold and frigid bursting to life in your chest. A pain that you hadn’t been expecting—she tells you about Jeremiah and his lead lined glasses, and how Alex would punch out anyone who teased her. She speaks with such love, such devotion.

It hadn’t even occurred to you that you hadn’t raised her—you’d have been twenty-four when she landed, just graduating college, just starting at the daily planet. It seems impossible that you’d just—drop her off somewhere, even if they were kind people. “I just—I left you there?” You ask after a while, and she backpedals like she doesn’t expect the question.

“Oh, you had a lot going on. You were graduating, it would have been a lot to expect from—from you.” She purses her lips, “Him? This is getting kind of confusing.”

 _A lot to expect_. You want to sob, and laugh, and just toss this all out—because— _because_. Your cousin had given up _everything_ for you—she’d watched her planet die, and she’d gotten into a little pod and said goodbye to everything she knew. That thousands of lightyears away she’d land on foreign soil and have to take care of an infant. You’d had difficulty understanding that in the beginning—when you were young and selfish. You couldn’t see the strain and the caution; the fear that lingered in almost everything she did. Because—well, this was your home. Earth, National City, the Bruised Apple—you didn’t know anything else. You didn’t have to take a moment to translate everything you were about to say—you didn’t have to re-learn the _stars_.

You want to tell her _you_ would have taken care of her— _you_ would have made sure she had whatever life she wanted. You’d sacrifice everything, because that was what you were taught. By your cousin, by Cat. Kara’s shrugging like she isn’t sure what to make of your silence, glancing at you, and then away, and you smile for her—wide enough until it feel even a little genuine. She had a family, even if it wasn’t the one you were expecting. She had Alex, and you know first had how much the agent does for those she cares about.

“I guess every world can surprise you.” You surmise, bumping her shoulder slightly.

She grins, “Definitely.”

How can you apologize for a person who isn’t—but _is_ —you?

The bruised apple has two carts out front; all the summer reading books for the year, Carter had suggested it, and Kara had been thrilled. They were two for five dollars, but you had seen firsthand that Kara wasn’t very adamant about payment—especially if it was the kids from the area. The _Bruised Apple_ practically ran the community service of the neighborhood; agreeing to keep the troublemakers on the proper side of the law.

“Our grandfather owned this,” you say, watching as she plucks books off the cart, turning them over so that she could read the back covers. She looks as you with eyebrows raised behind thick frames; the sun pouring over blonde hair and blue eyes. “Him and my cousin, they understood each other. I was still pretty young when he died, but she used to tell me stories afterward. How he’d convinced her to ask Cat out, or what he had to say about unmanaged anger. He was a good man, ask anyone in the neighborhood.”

Rubbing her hand on the cover, “He’s Mister Callaghan?”

Nodding, you’re about to say something when the darkness inside the shop is split by the laughter of a child—screaming giggles. Turning to look toward the door, it chimes and a man walks through—Kassidy has a little gray at his temples, and a few more lines at the edges of his eyes. But like he promised seventeen years ago, he still had a thick head of dark hair. His suit is wrinkles, his pale purple shirt even more so, tie at half-mast and sleeves rolled up. He sees you and grins that crooked smile, hands already removing from his pockets to give you a handshake that is unnecessarily hard—for a human. His apparent goal in life is you make you wince.

“Hey kid,” he always calls you _kid_ , and Carter _kiddo_ —he’d tried _champ_ for a little while, but it had just made everyone uncomfortable. He looks at Kara with a narrowed set of eyes—blue and scrupulous—they’re the same color as Carter’s eyes, but they’re leagues apart. Carter is curious, and serene, and understanding—Kassidy is a firework waiting to explode. Bright flash, loud noise. Licking his lip, he loses interest in squeezing your hand.

“This one of the things I’m not supposed to ask about?” He’s spent enough time around your cousin the last almost two decades that he sees the differences—the things that he just lets slide because he’s not in the business of questioning things. Exhaling loudly, he raises a brow and turns back to you, “How long until I get to be in the club, my man? Don’t let one itsy-bitsy little Thanksgiving-incident let your mothers sway your vote. It was an honest mistake.”

“You stabbed my cousin’s aunt with a knife,” you deadpan.

“Excuse you,” Kassidy lifts a finger to make a point, “ _Tried_ to stab her with a knife— _allegedly_ —and she dead lifted a baby grand. I was well within my right.” But Kassidy isn’t the problem right now—no, it’s the fact that he’s supposed to be across town at CatCo, _with Cat_. Looking inside, you try to find Carter in the darkness, but the glass is painted and fogged. Lowering your glasses, you squint in just enough time to see how the door is thrown open with a _crash_ and the window shudders in the frame.

The little girl that Kassidy had been babysitting for the last three days has lost all patience with whatever game she’d been playing inside. Burnished blonde hair hoisted up into the most ridiculous set of pony-tails that sprouted unevenly from her head—her caretaker not very adept at hair fashions. She grins at you, a wide thrilled grin, but somehow it manages to double when she glances past you and sees Kara. Green eyes widen and her whole little body vibrates with excitement.

“ _Ieue_!” Little feet unable to keep their relationship with the ground she floats the last two feet into Kara’s surprised arms. Blonde crown tucked under Kara’s chin, sneaker clad feet kicking with excitement. “Mommy said you had to go away!” She’s squealing, and burrowing her nose into the crook of Kara’s neck, hands curled into the soft blue of her shirt.

“Do you know how hard it is to keep her feet on the ground? Little button goes drifting off without any fucking provocation.” Kassidy’s saying, but you can only see how Kara’s hands cradle the little girl, her eyes wide and wet—fingers lost into twisting gold. The little girls glaring at Kassidy with all the effect of a teddy bear—puffy cheeks and wide doll eyes.

“Uncle Kas,” she scolds from her spot in Kara’s neck—for all the world a miniature Cat Grant, “no bad words. Mommy said she’d have _ieue_ throw you to the moon.” Face hidden again, you wonder when Kara will unlock, when her mind with flick—

It’s the slightest motion, just a hard blink of blistering blue eyes. Lips tripping over a word, breathy and confused, “ _ieue_?”

Okay, so maybe you left something out of your story.


	61. snap shot 61. ( -, 14, 30, 32 45 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _Your father believed in the power of shooting stars, he'd wake you up hours after your bedtime so that he'd sneak you out onto the building's roof so that you could see it clearly. "Things like this have a power to them, Kitty," he'd say with the utmost seriousness. "Make a wish, and it has to come true. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but eventually." You stopped believing in shooting stars when he died, because no matter how many times you asked them for him to stay, it never works. But much like an atheist in a foxhole, you want so badly for it to be true._

* * *

_“Rao, so beautiful.”_ The voice is whisper soft, fanning out across the edges of your clouding mind, digging in just enough to make you skin pebble—a shiver down your spine that only makes the lips against the side of your neck lift into a smile. “ _Gorgeous.”_ Fingers curl at the blade of your hip and roll you backwards into the solid warmth of your wife’s body—she’s still grinning like a coyote against your neck, but you can’t even find it in yourself to mind. Not with how teeth pluck playfully at your pulse. “ _Too tempting to ignore.”_ The words slip into your foggy mind without a moment of hesitation. One of her hands digs through your hair, pushing it up and away from your neck, nails scratching softly against your nape.

“Someone’s being fresh,” you murmur, still half asleep. Another breathy giggle against your pulse, and sure hands seem to have no problem dipping into the low slung cotton of your pajama pants. You’d been exhausted last night—tumbling in at midnight—absolutely miserable about missing _date night_. It’d been something Kara had read about in, unfortunately, _your_ magazine. Advice that busy professionals should have a designated night to spend together—you’d both decided on Tuesday, and you can’t really remember the reasoning. Only that it took a full overhaul of schedules, and eventually was decided with a handshake—very professional.

 _You’d_ ruined date night because the printing machine imploded and your maintenance crew made everything worse by pulling the lead to the sprinkler system and dousing the entire endeavor. You’d gotten the call somewhere between the fire, and the flood—calling across the city, you’d found the only privately owned press and threw a fair amount of clout and cash to have the problem rectified by morning. It was much more old fashion than your rig, but its elderly caretaker had promised that the magazine would be out by deadline. You’d made sure to supervise the relocation of all the sensitive materials that went into the publication—and had gotten into your town car by eleven forty.

The surprising lack of traffic had you home two minutes after midnight—the house dark, the table set with half-burned candles, and one place setting. Guilt had soured your stomach, churning and roiling until you’d somberly sought out your spouse—she’d been missing from bed, and you’d searched until you’d found her asleep in the spare bedroom she’d turned into a laboratory—the laminated floor, and smooth white walls not matching the rest of the house. There was a suntan lotion smelling haze in the air, but you’d checked quickly for any fires, before determining it was the oddly illuminated humidifier that was on the back counter.

“Baby,” you’d coaxed, kissing the crown of her head, “let’s get you into bed.” Kara grumbled and griped, but she’d been oddly compliant—her grip soft, her feet more uncoordinated than usual. She dozed through you pulling a shirt over her head, and divesting her of her slacks. “ _Comfy, soft_.” It had been less than a whisper, and you’d laughed softly enough that she didn’t seem to notice. Blinking blue eyes open just enough that you could see how they were blown, wide black pupils trying to swallow up light. There are some oddities you just get used to after decades live with aliens, including how their superior senses worked—one of them being that their pupils didn’t react much.

Kara had seen the worry in your face.

“Blew my powers out,” she’d sluggishly informed, “Alex s’wanted to test something.” She’s been going to the DEO more often recently—much more involved with the organization than Clark was willing to be. She hadn’t strapped back into the black plates of _the Spectre_ , but she’d been keeping a firm eye on National City since her return.

“Should I worry?” You ask, making sure to keep your voice pitched low—soothing and coaxing as you had moved her legs turned up under the covers.

“Mm, nope.” Lips popped, smile lethargic. “I missed you. I made dinner.”

“I know, I saw. I’m sorry, darling, there was—you know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I already cancelled all of my meetings tomorrow.” Stroking blonde hair away from her face, your fingers tingled and warmed; she’d turned into your hand, lazily kissing your palm and nuzzling her nose against your wrist. Like adrenaline shooting through your blood, you’d suddenly felt the burn in your chest that always seemed merely metaphorical before. It seeped through you, spilling into your limbs, into your bones. But Kara just cooed tiredly, and you’d choked it down—swallowing back the burn until you could kiss her cheek and scald yourself.

“That sounds nice,” such a happy little burble of words, and her eyes were closed again. “ _G’night. Love’ou_.”

“Love you too,” but she’d already fallen asleep.

So you’d scrubbed your face clean, pulled on the un-sexiest, yet comfiest, pajamas you could find, and slid into bed in front of her, not having to wait long at all until her arms pulled you closer. You felt the furnace that was your spouse pressed up against your back. It hadn’t taken you long to fall asleep with the tingle low in your stomach and just behind your eyes. The buzz of a lilting bird’s song lulled you to sleep—a language you don’t know, but recognize. One that Kara uses so infrequently—cosmic whispers from another time, and another place.

You’d woken up on your own for the first time in what felt like years—no alarm, no emergency, no rush. The sun folded between the open curtains, something that you’ve acclimated to over the years—east facing bedroom, wide wall to wall windows. It used to bother you, used to make it impossible to sleep past sunrise—but now it’s soothing. The muted warmth of the sun matched only by the furnace of the alien you’d married—her scalding palm nestling against the lower curve of your belly, fingers realizing you weren’t wearing anything under the loose cotton of your pajama pants.

“ _Every morning, just like this_ ,” you hear as a nose tucks behind your ear, hot breath fanning over the wet line up the side of your neck. “ _Until the stars go dark_.” Smiling, you can only reach back to thread fingers through the mess of curls that have escaped her hair tie; coaxing and encouraging, making sure she stayed exactly where she was.

The whispering tingle across your skin slips and scalds, falling away like water drops in a rainstorm—unable to feel each individual one, but knowing the drum of them all. There’s a vibration in your bones, playing a song you don’t recognize; something swelling and orchestral, a symphony describing the perfect evolution of sound. _This is perfect_ , you think, pressing your ass into the curve of her hips, your free hand tangling with the one scratching at your lower stomach, encouraging her lower.

“It really is,” Kara says into your hair, sliding fingers through your wetness, soft and barely touching, making your press your hips forward with a hapless whine. Kara’s in a teasing mood this morning—her touches fleeting, little whispers of hot fingers exactly where you want her. The familiar burn in your stomach swells, growing and consuming, and you dig your fingers a little harder into her hair—demanding she stop this—wait.

“Really is what?” You ask, because your mind is foggy, and spinning, whirring out of control because you just need her _inside you_ , but sometimes even you can’t stop your higher brain functions.

She smiles, and you feel the hardness of her teeth against your galloping pulse, “Perfect.”

One moment, two moments, “I didn’t say that.”

Kara’s obviously half listening, more concerned with pulling you back into the curve of her body, hand dipping intimately until she’s sheathed two fingers inside you. A gasp at the back of your throat—a pressure in your chest that’s brilliant, and devouring—before you can breathe again, releasing air with a soft moan.

“Kara,” you say her name, you mean for it to get her attention, but it only slides off your tongue as a slick need—a rough exhale of want, “Kara—,” again you try, but she’s rubbing the curve of her palm against your clit, sliding past and stoking the fire in your belly. She’s whispering “ _oh Rao_ ,” in your ear—but some distant thought makes you realize her lips aren’t moving _._ You can only focus—right here, right now—on the way her fingers curl, the way her hips grind against your ass, bringing you higher—and higher.

 _More,_ you think—it’s caught between two nearly lost breaths, throat tight, her fingers pressing against the base of your neck—hot against your sternum. But like she can hear you, she adds another finger—filling you completely. You can’t focus—you feel surrounded, her fingers inside you, against your back, but there’s a phantom warmth pressing against your chest. A rhythmic pressure of something rocking into your hips—“ _so tight_ ,” the thought comes unbidden, “ _so warm_.”

And like stepping off a cliff, you tip over the edge. Black swam in the wake of technicolor, and the thoughts you have in your mind are swirling and thick. Kara’s body tenses behind you, the muscles of her arm pinning you tight to her body, her fingers scissoring until you’re thrown over the edge again; all the right pressure in all the right spots. You can taste her heartbeat on your tongue, her blood in your veins, that tenuous relationship she has with the ground—the desire to stay fighting off the want to drift away. All of it poured into you as if filling a cup—up, and up, and up.

Until you spilled over, and everything went dark.

Moments, or minutes, or hours later—you don’t know—you feel the trail of fingers along your stomach, soft and fluttering. Pressing gently over the ridges of your ribs and to the swell of your breath. “That was—,” you’re sure there’s a word for it—the English language is your domain after all, but for the life of you, you can’t think of any. Kara shifts so that you can roll onto your back, her blue eyes glittering in the morning light, her smile lopsided and lazy _. How does she still smile like that_? You can’t stop the thought, can’t stop how your fingers reach up to brush a touch along the curve of her cheek and the plush pluck of her lower lips.

“It’s easy to smile when I’m looking at you.” Her voice is rough and low, filling her smile until it’s even wider, turning to press a kiss into the palm of your hand.

You’re smiling like an idiot—you know this—but you’re over pretending like you aren’t absolutely gone on this woman. Fear and uncertainty seem ridiculous when she’s smiling down at you like that—like you make it possible to forget all the bad. You imagine you smile just the same. _I love her s_ —the thought stops, because the haze is pulling back, folding away for another time, and you’re left with a jump started heart and a few questions.

“Kara,” you hedge quietly, not wanting to completely remove yourself from the warm bundle you’re in, _something’s wrong._ You think it, and know she hears you by the way her eyebrows pinch and her lips thin out quickly—blue eyes skate the room, squinting and listening. But it isn’t—it isn’t external.

It’s in how you can feel your heartbeat against the palm of your hand—in correlation to where Kara’s is resting against your sternum. It’s in how you can hear the conversation of the business man in the lobby of the building—thirty one floors down. It’s how you can smell lavender, and vanilla and sandalwood—and still the faintest traces of perfume. Strong enough that you imagine you could wrap yourself in the scent. _Tha-tha-thump_. Two heartbeats in perfect rhythm, not a millisecond between the beats. Two chests rising and falling together; you deliberately slow your inhales, and Kara does as well.

“Oh,” she murmurs, eyes going soft at the edges, looking for all the world like she’s embarrassed. “Oh, uh—I was working on something, last night.” She’s talking, but it’s like you know what she’s going to say seconds before she says them—you can’t distinguish them from your thoughts, can’t pull the two apart.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific, supergirl,” you allow, smiling despite the ache in your ear drums and the pulsing headache behind your eyes. Her eyes somehow look bluer—like you’re able to see a plethora of new colors you’d never been aware of before. The almost purple tint at the edges, the soft blue at the center—how her pupils weren’t actually black, no, they were the darkest red. So dark, it was nearly black.

“Okay, so,” you can feel the vibration of her words in your throat, like you’re saying them yourself, “There’s a race called the Doshea, they’re nomadic and make their home on alien worlds. Except the ones that landed here didn’t mean to, and they kind of got stuck—Earth isn’t their ideal environment. Even if they can live here, they won’t thrive. They’re light years away from the closest Doshea ship, and even if they could contact them—it’s really unlikely they’d help. They’re very _every Doshea for themselves_.” Kara’s babbling, but it’s soothing in a way—you don’t remember ever feeling this calm; the wind outside the window, the warmth of the sun—the warmth of _Kara_. Like her very being was bleeding into your own.

“So two member of the clan met with me at the Center last week, and asked if I could help them. They’re a telepathic race that relies on their ability to link with one another—they’re essentially blind on Earth because their pheromones are metabolized by the chemicals in Earth’s air.” She says _the Center_ so casually, as if it wasn’t something she built from the ground up; as if it wasn’t everything she’d hope for it to be and more. The Center for Alien Relocation Efforts—CARE, for short—was the largest organized effort to help stranded off-worlders establish honest identities, if they wished.

“And did you help them?” You ask, unable to keep your hands from pressing into the sweaty, slick give of her muscles—with her powers blown out, she keens softly, feeling the dig a little more than she usually would. A desire to possess flares, knowing you’ll be able to leave marks that will actually last. You’ll be able to fit your fingertips gently over the impressions on her hips, or match your teeth to a mark on her neck. With how Kara’s come to settle between your legs, you’re hardly listening—you can hear the thoughts slipping through her mind, jumbled and soaked, hardly noticeable.

“Apparently too well,” she gasps, pressing down into you,  dragging short nails up your torso until she can hook in your shirt and tear it clean in two with her still rather impressive strength. “Seems to have no problem now.” She’s talking more—or maybe thinking it—about linked minds, and genetic material, and desired traits but you can only focus on how badly you need Kara below you. Pressed into the give of your mattress gasping, and screaming, your name.

You probably should have been listening.

* * *

Two months of stray thoughts that don't belong to you.

They’ll slip in so quietly you won’t realize they aren’t yours; they’ll tumble around with all the things you keep on your mind in a given day and only sometimes will you realize it doesn’t belong. Salivating over a loaded hotdog, or working through a scientific proof—little things that you can only abstractly understand because the actual mind thinking them was sharing its understanding. Kara would sometimes use words you know she’s never used before—like troglodyte, and pejorative—or she’d text you the answer to the crossword you were working on at the office.

Kara had gone back to her work the next morning, making sure she wasn’t unintentionally giving  the both of you tails and had been somehow thrilled with the results. You’re not a scientist—not in any stretch of the imagination—but you understood her point well enough. The enzymes that had been absorbed would filter out once they had nothing to tether onto—once the jackrabbit heartbeat and that insatiable _need_ for each other passed. Which meant no sex for a week, and feeling like you were burning alive—a pressure in your stomach, a heat in your palms that you _knew_ would cool if you were only given a chance to get your hands on Kara.

A week of being unable to look at your wife without thinking _mine_ , without drifting just a little too close for decency’s sake. Carter had been adamantly disgusted—as only teenage boys can be—and said he was going to be at his friend’s house for the weekend; citing some English project that he still had far too much time to complete to justify the rush. “Mom,” he’d all but pleaded when you’d considered saying no—and as is usually the case, you caved. You’d even employed the _ask your ieiu_ , but Kara stood even less of a chance than you—she folded before she was even asked.

Traitor.

The week had ended and the heat had receded, pulling back like a tide on the beach—still somewhere inside, you could _feel_ it, but nothing that impeded your routine. Only little half-thoughts from across town, or little warnings that something was wrong—you could practically taste when Kara was upset on your tongue. Regardless of whether or not it was something actually happening to her, or just those few nail bitingly sad moments before the ending of _Homeward Bound_. You know Kara—know her intimately, and emotionally, and physically—but there was a strange kind of connectivity to knowing something’s thoughts. To feeling their emotions.

One week, turned into two—turned into a month, turned into two months.

You’d gotten used to it, to the point that it felt hollow if there wasn’t the liquid warmth of Kara’s beating heart tethered to yours. You try to imagine the Doshea—the alien race she’d helped—being connected like this all the time. To being one half of something more, to knowing instantly when something wasn’t right, when something fit improperly.

And you’ve been feeling that all day.

Your heart hammering in your chest, keeping pace with Kara’s, who has been quietly panicking across town. You’d left it alone this morning, because it had just felt like a crawling anxiety—you’ve learned that even if Kara’s smiling, even if she’s laughing, there’s moment between the grins that are suddenly deeper—like she’s tripped and fallen into somewhere slightly darker, slightly lonelier. You’re nothing but proud of how your chest constrict—for only a second, maybe two—before its soothed away. More often than not you’ll feel her eyes on you, and you can’t help how _I love you_ flows through you like a river.

 _I love you, I love you, and I love you_.

But this anxiety hadn’t gone away—it built, and built—laying bricks and mortaring them. Keeping them strong and solid, and threatening to only tumble in the worst way. So—you’d tried texting. Just something short, something to feel it out—you don’t want to immediately jump, don’t want to ask what this _feeling_ in your chest is. This fear—this confusion.

[12:14PM] **Cat** : How’s your morning?

[12:16PM] **Supergirl** : chillaxin, u kno me. how was ur mornin

Now, you wouldn’t set the sun by Kara’s ability to write coherent sentences while testing, but she at least used full words. Your heart had jumped again, going fast if at all possible, and you’d tried to calm down—tried to meditate your own anxiety away hoping it would help your other half. But, regardless of how long you spent on the balcony in locust position, it kept drumming away. _Tha-tha-thump, tha-tha-thump._ So, you’d gone to a meeting—stared at the employees that seemed more scared that you _weren’t_ yelling at them, and then left them to their own devices when it became clear they were idiots, but ones who were actually doing their jobs well enough that you didn’t need to intervene.

It wasn’t long past lunch when you heard the quiet of the news floor—there was always a particular hum of everyone working. A life to it. You thrive on the activity of a busy news room, it feeds that competitive creature inside you that lurks and hungers and demands; the part of you that is systematically rebuilt when you consume goals and desires—that fosters new edges and new horizons. _I have this, now I want that_. It was what let you go as far as you have without finding some comfortable ditch to reside in—to settle for something less than the edge of the world.

Looking up, you can feel her before you see her—like a shadow imprinted to the backs of your eyelids, you can feel her only yards away, not miles. Your private elevator hisses open and she’s just—there. Looking for all the wont like a professional—slacks that are pressed and fitted, a button up lavender shirt that doesn’t have a single barnyard animal printed on it, and a blazer that actually matches her pants. Gold hair pulled up into a messy bun, which only seemed to compliment the chunky black framed glasses she’s worn since she was thirteen years old.

 _Mine_. That thrilled little beast in your chest chitters, and you see how Kara’s eyes snap to you—focused blue and kiss swollen lips. The line of her neck calls to you from even here, and it’s like that first week all over again—the scent of her heavy in your nose, even if you logically know she’s too far away to smell the warmth of her skin. You’re around your desk in a moment but you--barely--stop yourself from going any further—leaning back with arms crossed over your stomach, fingers gripping tight to your forearms.

“Darling,” eyes searching her for any explanation to the thrill of fear in her stomach—and by proxy, yours—but there’s nothing that catches your attention. Nothing except how her eyes trail away and her hands shove into her pockets, and then remove, brushing down the front of her shirt. “What brings you across town?” You know she was going to see Alex—know that they were supposed to go to lunch, and some exhibit at the museum. Something even Carter had turned his nose up at, which was unusual in and of itself.

Kara swallows, and you can’t look away from the curve of her jaw and the pulse you know would be thundering. “Can we talk?” She says seriously, and you can only track up to find her eyes. You no longer can see the dark red of her pupils, of the thousand extra shades of blue.

“Of course, of course,” stepping forward to alight a touch to her elbow, you don’t have to direct her to the balcony. She presses the door open and steps into the fresh air. It’s a little brisk this high, a little windy. “What’s going on?” When Kara chews her lip, you step closer knowing the office can’t see out here. Hand smoothing up the tense line of her forearm, tickling the inside of her elbow before leading up to the slope of her neck, thumb brushing the gallop of her heart. “I’ve been worried all day.”

Stepping closer Kara finally looks up to catch your eyes, face pinching, but she clears her throat and grips the lapels of your jacket with both hands. “So, I went to see Alex today, like I said.” She’s preparing for a ramble—so you breathe deep and settle—listening to how they’d gotten lunch at the café that she’d taken you to a few months ago—and then had gone to the exhibit about sedimentary rock. “And when we were there I told Alex that I have been feeling—not sick, but—but _weird_. So we went back to the DEO and she did a few tests, and she said I’m not sick—I’m—,”

A pause.

A long one.

“You can tell me, Kara,” closer until you’re pressing into her, chest painfully tight as that protective instinct swells. A devouring need to keep this woman safe, to keep her here, keep the fear out of her heart, and a smile on her face.

“Pregnant,” the word is an exhale, all the air from her lungs. “I’m pregnant.”

A pause.

The words clang around, rattling where thoughts should have been—but you don’t have any, not for a long while until they suddenly _make sense_. One word that seems larger and smaller than it should— _pregnant_. Blinking up at her she’s watching you with scared eyes, like she’s expecting the worst. The tan of her cheeks pale, the rise and fall of her chest rapid and the grip of her knuckles white. “What?” You _know_ you said it, but it’s like standing in a tunnel, the word echoing and swimming. She tries to step back, hands flat against your collarbones, but you chase forward that step. Blinking, shaking your head slightly, “What?”

“I—I had her check four times. There’s—I’m not supposed—,” and like a knockout punch you’re hit square in the chest with it. The fear and panic that had felt like absent brushes against your mind all day suddenly belong to you now. Fingers digging into your lung making it hard to breath, air burning and scalding as you gulp it down— _what if—what if—she doesn’t believe_ —it isn’t a complete thought, not even most of one. But it’s going around, and around, and around in her mind, bleeding into the edges of yours—it’s hard to shake it away being this close to her, hard to breathe through the panic, hard to push through the haze.

“Kara,” her name trips off your tongue, sounding like all consonants, a jumble, because Kara’s saying your name at the same time. The hard letter mix, the curved vowels slip away and you’re left with a quivering mess of a Kryptonian—she’s breathing like she’s desperate for oxygen, like no matter how much she sucks in she’s still lacking. _I’m pregnant_ , like a klaxon going off at your temples, you feel vaguely faint, little bubbling black dots spitting at the edges of your vision and you do take a step back. You’re breathing with her, trying to keep yourself upright, trying to push her fear and panic away from your fear and panic.

You aren’t successful.

You don’t remember stepping back toward the chair, but when you come to Kara’s hovering over you in concern. Her hands are combing through your hair, her cheeks against yours—the air somehow feels cooling in your lungs, like the heat pouring through you _can_ be soothed. Because—because— _I’m pregnant_ —your light had only gotten better after those words. It had filled you with love, and extended those you cared about.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I should have waited until you got home,” she’s talking too quickly, and tripping over words, and you know at least _one_ of those in there weren’t English. “I’m sor—,” you don’t let her finish. Catching her at the nape of her neck, you drag her down until you feel the press of her weight—solid, and scalding, and _yours_. Her lips stammer until they yield to yours, falling into the cradle of your body without problem. Her eyes are dazed when you pull a hair’s breath away.

“You’re sure?” God, you hope she is.

Kara smiles, a little curve of a thing. “I’m sure.”

Good—that’s good—she can explain it to you later

* * *

“What the fuck do you mean _you don’t know_?”

The fear is crawling beneath your skin like fire ants, pricking, and biting, and making everything rebel. You’ve never actually been to the DEO—you know it exists, you know more than a handful of its operatives (half of them had gotten drunk at your wedding)—but you’d never crossed the line, never stepped into this part of Kara’s life. But none of that matters when she’s writhing and whimpering on a medical cot. Her hand between yours, her face turned into the pillow while she bites her lip, trying to keep any actual screams inside.

That’s what had woken you—Kara had bucked and thrashed, turned the sheets around her body until she’d stripped them from your side of the bed. The screaming had come next—hands clutching at her midsection, nails biting and clawing, you’d been more than concerned when you’d seen blood on the sheets. _The baby, the baby_ —you couldn’t tell if you were thinking it, or Kara was, but it didn’t matter. She’d sobbed into the red stained fabric until you’d called Alex, frantic for what else to do—she’d been keeping up with Kara, been monitoring her condition.

“This is kind of a first, Cat,” you want to be mad, want to rage, but Alex is pale, her hands shaking when she isn’t pressing green tipped needles into Kara’s arm. “This isn’t supposed to be _possible_.” You’d had Kara sit you down and explain in detail—multiple times so that you could truly understand what was going on. To help the Doshea, Kara had infused the pheromones with her own genetics—how her cells adapted to the yellow sun, how they _absorbed_ the radiation lingering in the air. The process had made them perfectly compatible for her Kryptonian biology, fostering a strong central link.

When you’d gone into the makeshift lab you’d breathed in the pheromones—letting the altered chemical bleed into your system. It was supposed to be dormant, a background noise to life, but because it filled all those carefully empty places, it had encouraged intimacy. A hormonal need to procreate, and from that Kara’s unintentional thoughts become a shopping list for baser instincts—plucking traits from the mental bond and fostering them with the warmth in her stomach. The Doshea didn’t have genders—they were able to link to any species in the galaxy and have children. Carefully craft a child with desired traits that made each generation stronger—better—more unique.

But none of that matters—because Kara’s all you can think of.

You snag Alex by the arm before she can leave you to pile into the room with the other doctors—you must hold her tighter than she’s expecting because she winces and jerks to a stop. You must look a mess—a pair of Kara’s sweatpants that have been rolled twice above sneakers that are two sizes too big, the tank top you wore to bed, and a half-zipped sweatshirt proclaiming University of National City. Alex’s eyes are dark, the mask around her neck halfway to being over her nose, but she’s giving you this moment, this single moment, even though you’re world is crashing apart in the other room.

“You save her, Alex.” _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —you’re thinking it, you know this because you’re making a choice. You’ve lost Kara too many times to consider doing it again—your world is finally whole, finally complete, and you wouldn’t give that for anything. You’re selfish, and afraid, and that makes you less the person you wish to believe yourself to be and more the person you actually _are_. “I don’t care how you do it—I don’t care the consequences. Save her.” You can only think about how Kara had been thinking _the baby, the baby_ and you know Kara would choose the life growing inside her over her own life. You _know_ this, but you can’t abide it.

You can’t be good like Kara, you can’t be selfless and true—because you know what it feels like to fill empty places with miasma and vitriol, you know how your blood turns acidic and your hands cold. You remember how it felt to throw away pieces of Kara like she was everyday trash—yogurts, and shoes, and forgotten bow ties.

Alex looks startled, like she hadn’t been expecting you to be so vehement about this point you _aren’t_ saying specifically—but she understands. She sees the ruin in your eye, the crumbling foundation that has taken too many hits over the years. “It’s not going to come to that,” she says instead of agreeing, trying to remove your fingers from her arm.

“You can’t promise that,” holding tighter, “promise me, Alex.” You need confirmation that you aren’t blackening your soul for no reason, that she won’t heed this request. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —you think you might hear a voice in your mind whispering _don’t be_ , _it’s okay_ but you can’t hear anything past the heartbeat in your ears.

Finally, she nods.

And with that she spins away, slapping through the contamination quarantine doors, snapping orders at frantic medical professionals. Kara’s been strapped to the table, her arms and legs tensing against the bands keeping her down. The whole room has the faintest hint of green—washing all their faces in unnatural coloring until they all look sick. It’s enough to keep your Kryptonian on the table against her body’s best wishes.

Sitting down in the only available chair in the deserted examination room, you can’t make out what they’re doing on the opposite side of the glass. You can see how Kara’s mouth is open in a scream, but you can’t _hear_ it. Can’t feel it. There’s a cold nothing where she had been the in your mind the last few months. There’s an empty black at the edges of your heart and in the splinters of your bone.

“She’s the strongest person I know,” it's Hank, standing beside your chair with all the severity of a Catholic school nun.

Shaking your head exhausts you, but you can’t hope for comfortable denial. “Even the strong break eventually.”

He hums, leaning back and watching with fathomless eyes—Hank’s always had that air about him, like he’s seen the end of the world, and he’s just waiting. The same look Kara has after nightmares. That look that says lives can be so much worse than imagined—that deep down, there’s parts of them that have decayed and rotted away, pieces that belonged to dying worlds. “Maybe,” the concession is soft, “but I don’t think this is her breaking point.”

Laughing, you cradle your head between your palms, trying to press fingertips into your temples to stop the _ache_ that’s throbbing there. “And what will be? What’ll be the next big crisis that’ll break her for good?” Squeezing your eyes shut, you can hear words like a lullaby in your mind—the language isn’t English, but you understand it in a way. Beautiful and lilting, like a bird’s song—Kryptonese. “I just got her back, Hank. I just—I can’t lose her again.”

This man—who wasn’t a man at all—who had stood beside Clark and Carter in their wedding photos, who had pretended not to cry the second Alex started tearing up. Who always thought he was on the outside looking in on a world that wasn’t his, but he chose nonetheless—who you know spoke to Kara late at night sometimes when she couldn’t sleep and the curl of your arms felt suffocating. Two misplaced travelers who had no homes to return to—just empty places in their hearts.

“You won’t,” unlike Kara, his palm’s cool against your shoulder, rubbing awkwardly like he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to. His voice firm, and solid, and lingering like a warning in the air—all these godlike beings that seem to forget that they might be able to survive things that are impossible, and they might be able to save the world.

But they’re betting in a rigged establishment; the house only has to win once—just _once_ —for the game to be over.

* * *

Having her own children was never in the cards for Kara—not on Krypton, and not on Earth—but one little miscalculation with foreign pheromones had made so much possible. Her indestructible body was trying to purge the pregnancy once it registered to her immune system—tried to flush the alien hormones from her blood, and remove the growth it didn’t recognize. Alex had explained everything in small, soft words when she’d stepped out of the surgery suite—the gloves she’d shucked into the garbage bin red, the front of her surgical gown spattered with blood. You’d been expecting the worst—you had been all night—but it had been a relief when she’d smiled.

“Kara’s going to be fine,” she’d said while leading you into the recovery room—lights low, the beep of the monitor loud. Kara was on the bed, an oxygen mask over her nose. What draws your attention is the thick brackets around her wrists—dark matte metal bracketing around either wrist. You’d think nothing of them, but you see the faintest traces of green just under her skin—bleeding into her veins and digging down where it couldn’t be seen. “She’s going to have to wear Kryptonite cuffs until the pregnancy’s finished—her normal rate of metabolism is far too dangerous.” Kara’s asleep, her face relaxed and her brow smoothed out—running a thumb just below her eye and along the blade of her cheekbone.

“Will they hurt her?”

Alex licks her lips and exhales, “a little.” She must see the conflict in your eyes, in the way you reverently push lax gold hair behind the strap keeping the mask on her face. “We gave her the choice, Cat.” And Kara is selfless where you are selfish. She thinks _the baby_ , when you’re thinking _my wife_ —but you’ve seen her these last weeks, _glowing_ with the life inside her, brighter than you thought possible since she’d been gone. Her smile wide and brilliant, her touch soft and resplendent.

Pressing a hand over the cuff, covering it so that you couldn’t see it, “Well, I guess that’s settled.”

* * *

Carter finds you on the living room floor—shoes cast off somewhere, winter jacket still on, two pairs of glasses on your nose. You can feel Kara in your chest, that little _tug_ that reminds you of things you don’t need reminding of. You’d just gotten her to fall asleep, rubbing her lower back, massaging her feet, and singing under your breath. You _know_ you can’t sing—not a single damned note—but for whatever reason Kara likes it. She’d fought sleep for the longest, itching at the skin just above the cuff on her right wrist, but eventually the night soothed away her worries and she drifted off.

You’d gone for a walk.

Unable to slow the frantic thrum of your mind, unable to slow the worry and sooth away the fear—Kara had been officially put on bedrest two weeks prior, and Alex still thought it should have been two weeks before even that date. You agreed—not liking the pale color to Kara’s skin, and the shadows gathering like storm clouds just below her eyes. She smiled, she laughed, but there was a strain to her now—something she holds in so that it doesn’t spill out. You want to take that pain yourself, want to swallow it deep and keep it in your bones and away from her—but the bond created that night so many months ago didn’t allow such a thing.

“I might’ve been at dad’s for the weekend,” Carter starts, hands in his jacket pockets and ridiculous hat making his unruly curls even worse. “But I’m pretty sure you had a bed when I left.” You can’t believe how tall he’s gotten—whole heads taller than you, closing in on even Clark. He has Kassidy’s build—slender and long limbed—and Clark’s poor posture. Sometimes when you’re bone tired—like now—you look at this beautiful boy you can’t believe you helped create—with his brilliant blue eyes and his kind heart. You can’t believe any credit can be given to you; surely he’s made of miracles and stardust. Something beyond mortality and humanity—when you look at Carter you may believe in something after this.

There has to be.

“Cooler down here,” you say, smiling up at him with a lazy slant of tired lips. He grins at you, though you can see the worry in the little squint to his eyes. Crouching down Carter plucks the two pairs of glasses off your nose and puts them on the side table a few feet away.

“Probably would be cooler if you took your jacket off, mom.” Carter’s sitting beside your head, leaning back to balance himself on his palms.

“I’ll get around to it,” you will—eventually—when you’re just not so _tired_. You haven’t had a full night of sleep in months; the ache in your chest, the pulsing pain at your wrists, the bleeding warmth. You know it’s all phantom touches from Kara that you’re just borrowing parts of; little pieces of her hurt, but they’re bodiless and vague, they curl through you and rot your blood because your human biology doesn’t _understand_ it. There’s no immune system to respond, no natural defense—no way to medicate away the pain.

Carter’s shuffling and shifting until he’s laying down on the floor beside you, his arm pressed into yours, his jacket rubbing against your own. He’s breathing slowly—in, and out, in, and out—and you try to match him, try to slow your inhales until they take long moments, try to press your exhales until it feels like you’re letting something out. Carter doesn’t say anything for a while, just lays there and breaths—you can’t believe how far he’s come, how mature he’s gotten. He’s almost an adult—even if he’ll always be your baby boy—almost old enough that he’ll move on and away from you.

“You’re worried about ma.”

Blinking slowly and turning to see the profile of his face—Kassidy’s cheekbones, your chin, your mother’s nose, “Your mother’s fine.” _Fine_ , what a silly little word—you’d be able to live whole lifetimes happy if you never hear the word _fine_ again. _Everything will be fine_ — _she’s fine—I’m fine._ Brittle like lies that crumble to dust between your fingers.

“I’m not a kid anymore, mom.” He’s not looking at you, “I know that the doctors are worried. They think there’s going to be complications.”

Carter isn’t looking at you because his blue, blue eyes are getting glassy and far away, he’s breathing deep—and deeper still—to stop the sob building in his chest. He’s hurting, and you’ve been so preoccupied with the aches, and the hollow pains, and the minutes—not hours—of sleep you’ve managed, that you’ve missed it. His nostrils flare and it throws you back a decade, to when he was smaller and more easily upset—you’d always know when he was about to cry because his little nostrils would flare.

“Baby,” _crack_ , your heart splinters just a little more and you’re rolling and sitting up until you can cup his cheek, even when he tries to turn away so you don’t see the tears pouring down his cheek. “Please, Carter. Look at me, honey.” You need to see where he is, you need to see how far away he is in his eyes—coaxing him closer to you, letting him roll onto his side and curl around your lap until you have him close. The ridiculous hat tossed onto the couch so that you can comb fingers through his curly hair. It isn’t until he’s rubbed his cheek against your leg that he looks up at you—wet eyes and blotchy cheeks.

You want to tell him _everything’s fine_ but you can’t. “They’re worried, and there’s good reason to be. This isn’t a typical pregnancy, especially not a typical birth—but we have to trust that they know what they’re doing.” How can he look at you like your words are gospel? Like he’d believe you if you told him the sun would cease to rise tomorrow—how can you tell him, honestly, that his mother might die? That _this_ is the fear stuck to the chamber of your heart like molten tar—burning and cloying and masticating every nerve ending.

“We have to trust that we’ll make it through this like we have everything else.” Destroyed planets, and light-years, and lost years, and farewell eyes. All the things that carved the intricate lines on your heart and into your very skin. You have to trust that your two boys will flourish and prosper and live wonderful lives themselves—that the world won’t be able to buck their happiness, won’t be able to cast it off into the black of space.

Carter’s nodding, rubbing his face against your stomach trying to get as close as he can without actually climbing into your lap—he used to love having you hold him when he was younger. Shrugging off your coat so that you can drape it over him and rub the warmth into his skin—letting him feel the weight of the two jackets, let him feel secure so he’ll tell you what’s still on his mind. “Do you know the story about how I met your mother and brother?” You ask, coaxing him into talking, pulling him away from the veins of worry and the cracking foundation that is his whole life.

Sniffling, “Yeah, Clark’s told me like—a thousand times.”

Still combing through his hair to keep it out of his eyes—you can feel how his body is relaxing, how he’s melting into you and you’re impossibly glad that this hasn’t changed. Your ability to comfort him—you don’t know what you would do if he became a puzzle too, if you blinked and he twisted and turned until you had no idea how to sooth his hurts. “Not to brag,” conspiratorial, like this is some great secret, “but I’m a pretty decent storyteller—that is, if you believe the word on the street.”

Carter snorts, masking a laugh, “Are you going to tell me next now many Pulitzers you have?”

“Pfft, young Padawan, I won’t bore you with the details; just know, I tell the story so much better.” He’s looking up at you, face soft and lax, eyes still wet but the redness had pulled back just a little. He’s blinking rapidly to prevent anymore tears from falling and your heart constricts for your brave, _brave_ boy. “Well, it all started on a Thursday—don’t believe your aunt, amazing things happen on Thursday—and I was having lunch with my adoring fans…”

* * *

It shouldn’t be this _hard_.

You’re pretty decent at puzzles, and amazing at vague instructions—hell, you’d made a career out of it at the Planet, but maybe it’s time to turn in your puzzle master’s jacket and let someone else take over. You’ve been wracking your brain for the last twenty minutes and you’re only five steps into what seems like a thousand mile march—across hot coals, and blistering storms, and raging heat, and complete darkness. There’s an ache behind your eyes that might’ve been rectified with scotch—but you’ve been painfully sober for seven months, and you refuse to give in now. Especially under these circumstances.

“Cat,” Clark’s looking at you through bars, and you can make out the desperation in his eyes—the furrow in his brow that says he’d rather be anywhere but where he is. It pulls you back from your tongue-in-cheek musing and makes you take a deep breath—you see no foreseeable way to getting out unscathed. “Help.” You remember when he was just a boy, he’d look at you with the same desperately imploring look and demand you rescue him—from any number of silly little things that frightened indestructible little boys. Fireflies, thunder, Jehovah’s witnesses.

“I’m already helping, heathen.” You shake your fist, the little slivers of metal biting into your palm when you realize you’re holding them a little too tightly.

He sighs dramatically, before falling over and allowing the crib side to fall on him. “We’re going to die here. Remember us fondly, Carter.”

Your youngest is snickering from where he’s perched against the wall, studying for his Advanced Placement Physics test. He’s actually not wearing five layers of clothing—subjecting himself to the weather and not just his morose teenage fashion sense, which involved way too much denim and cotton-blend for your taste. Clark had convinced you that letting Carter express himself through his clothes was _really_ important, and in all reality, you hadn’t needed much convincing. You just wished he’d have a little more _color_ in his wardrobe.

“Keep laughing young man, and your mother will realize you’re slacking,” you threaten from where you’ve also flopped over, using your oldest as a cushion to break your fall. You’d told Kara that you were going to put the crib together yourself when she’d dejectedly mentioned that she wouldn’t be able to do it this time—not like with Carter’s. She resigned herself to having a service come put all the furniture together before you’d stepped in with love in your heart and stupidity everywhere else—a carpenter you are not.

Clark had taken pity on you and had settled into helping you—and that was five hours ago. The Franken-frame left a little to be desired, but you’re positive you’ll get it done.

“Mom, I’m bettering myself, furthering my education, becoming an upstanding citizen and a pillar of morality.” Okay, so maybe Carter got a _little_ bit of drama from you.

“Calm down, Debate Club, mom’s not gonna make you help, she’s got her indentured alien to boss around.” It always makes you smile when Clark talks like that—not the sarcasm, you could do without that. No, you feel that warmth in your chest when he says _mom_ casually—not adding the _your_ before it. Usually to Carter, or someone who doesn’t understand the dynamic between you and him—more people assume you’re dating than anything _approaching_ mother and son. It happens so infrequently, you can’t help squeezing his arm when he does do it—you understand why he doesn’t, you understand Kara’s growing fear when she was just a child herself.

Doesn’t change how much you like it when you hear it.

“Damn right,” you grin, patting his hand, “not that you’re being much of a help.”

Clark snorts indignantly, “excuse you, who put together the majority of what we have so far?”

It’s true, you’d puzzled over your portion of the crib for lord knows how long. Sitting up and turning the railing to face away from you so that you can see the six different size, and types, of holes in the beautifully varnished wood. Clark lifts the instructs so that he can read then while still laying down—knowing that piece _G_ goes to piece _1A_ doesn’t help one bit, because any helpful stickers have long since been removed by some idiot in a factory.

“Maybe ma’ll take pity on you guys,” Carter suggests, still not looking up from his textbook—even if you can see the wide dopy smile on his face. “Get a professional to come in and do it for you.”

Gritting your teeth you snatch the instruction back from Clark and see the answering challenge in his eyes—screw professionals and their _skill sets_. You were going to put this damned crib together if it took the next two months—and you know Clark agrees if his determined chin nod is any indication.

Pride? What pride?

* * *

“What’s this?”

Turning to look over your shoulder you see Kara standing in the square of light that bisects the room—smiling, brows raised. There’s two steaming mugs in her hands—the smell of coffee hits you from even where you are across the room. She’s wearing a tank top that shows the curve of her shoulders and the swell of her belly. Pregnancy looks good on her—it filled out all those little edges that she’s had since her return. The little reminders that seem ever present, like they were as much a part of her as everything else. Fitted black leggings and soft fluffy teal socks complete her staycation fashion, and you’re so glad you took the last few weeks until the due date off.

Clark had argued against it—not because he didn’t want you hanging around, but apparently you had the tendency to become _insufferable_ if you don’t go to work. You’ve tried your best to prove him wrong—but maybe it’s all the sleepless nights catching up on you—all the nights that you can’t sleep because the ache in you is stronger, and hotter, and roiling. And all those other nights—the ones spent watching Kara sleep, of placing your hand on the curve of her stomach to feel the press of little feet against your palm. That protective flare inside blistering brighter and harder, throbbing in your arms and chest, and behind your eyes. You’d never sleep again if you could just watch over them forever.

Yes—them.

You can’t disassociate with the little blur in sonograms, and the almost phantom pains in your stomach—you can feel their heartbeat, taste their life on the tip of your tongue. Your child—your baby. All the science in the world couldn’t remove the little nugget—what Kara had been calling them—from where they have nestled firmly in your heart

Pulling yourself from your thoughts, you lower your brush and step back to appraise your work. “I told you I’d paint the baby’s room.” And you had—much like how Kara had all those years ago. The mural that had been on Carter’s wall for so many years—with red gravel, green grass, and towering crystal cities. You aren’t nearly as artistically inclined. You can draw pretty decent stick figures—some people call them creepy because they have a little too much detail in the face and hands, but you toned it down for the baby’s room.

Across the wall with the window was the block you used to live on in Metropolis—red bricks, and flower boxes. The lady who always walked her two stupid little dogs, and the boy who played guitar on the corner. It had been a restored colonial building in the heart of hipster metropolis—your father had loved the _life_ in the neighborhood. A million dollar apartment in an area that was ever changing. Beyond the slightly lopsided buildings were the stars—constellations you had never seen yourself because they were from the sky of a planet that no longer existed. _Harbon_ , the gracious gallant. _El Rhua_ , Rao’s cherished.  They’re little colored dots you had to check with Clark for the correct placement.

Overall it’s a pretty bad painting, but you had finished the other three walls in a cream color that matched much of the rest of the house—comforting, and smooth, and minimalistic. It had fit nicely with the elegant furniture that had been set up, and the crystal mobile hanging from the ceiling. You’d needed to make this room feel—you can’t describe the pull in your heart when you’d remembered how tenderly Kara had painted her world for Carter. A little boy she hadn’t even believed could be hers. You’d wanted to do the same—even if your buildings were all wrong, and your people were primarily sticks.

“I thought you meant with the paint we picked out,” she’s closer now, and you want to think of the perfect word to describe the glow to her skin. Like it lives inside her. You can’t help how you cup her cheeks and pull her in for a kiss—she isn’t supposed to be up, but the way her lips play against yours eases all the knots in your spine, all the worry in your heart.

“I did that too,” you whisper against her lips, before stealing another kiss. “I decided since you painted one in Carter’s room, I’ll paint one for our little nugget.” You don’t have her painter’s fingers—which smooth up and down your back—and you don’t have her artist’s eye that ensnare yours so easily in her gaze. You feel invincible even as you fall apart in her hands—this woman who could break worlds with her might holds you so delicately. Even with the clanking bracelets around both of her wrists—there’s still enough tensile strength to keep you present. Keep you here.

Kara’s looking at you like maybe _you_ hung those stars in the sky—chased _El Rhua_ into the glass forest and through the crystal river. Like _you_ had the ability to shatter worlds, that you were anything more than one person on this little blue dot somewhere in the nowhere of the universe.. It’s inconceivable really, the grand scale so smothering and heavy that sometimes you make yourself think about it—make yourself really ponder the possibilities that could have happened _instead_ of this life you’re living.

A life where you didn’t have Kara to teach you how to temper yourself against others, and love unconditionally. Didn’t have Clark to teach you to care without expectation and without restraint. Didn’t have Mister Callaghan to show you that family isn’t about blood, and it isn’t about demands—it’s simple, and bone deep, and something from the heart. A life where you didn’t make decisions for yourself, but for people who saw you as legacies and smiling faces and emotionless dinner parties.

Who would you have been in those worlds?

“I recognize it,” Kara says after a while, her nose rubbing along yours, “your father’s home?” She’d seen it in pictures and even on crumbling recordings—someone else lives there now, the walls have been torn down, and the building remodeled. You’d been by to see it recently and the neighborhood doesn’t look the same—that _old world_ feel was all but gone, and in its place was new age modernists with their minimalistic paint splatters and expensive organic soy coffee.

“Mhm,” eyes closing, body leaning into the warmth of her, you feel relaxed for the first time in what seems like forever—she’s rubbing up your back, scratching nails lightly against your scalp. You try to extract yourself from her arms when you feel yourself leaning a little too forward, worried you’ll take her to the ground with your suddenly lead feeling body.

“Let’s get you to bed.” She’s whispering in your ear, nosing along the shell and kissing just at the edge of your jaw—you want to argue, to shake your head and say you aren’t finished, that you’re covered in drying paint, but you can only yawn instead. Complacency isn’t a typical look on you, but Kara directs you easily enough—turning your body and unbuttoning the shirt you’d borrowed from Clark to cover your clothes while painting.

“M’gonna get the sheets paint-…y.” You’re pretty sure you actually say the words out loud, but Kara only smiles and smooths hair out of your eyes. Blinking owlishly at her as you’re pushed down against the pillows. “Just a nap, I’ll—just a minute.” There’s so much you still have to do, so much that needs to be take care of.

“Just a nap,” she promises with a kiss to your cheek, and another to the corner of your mouth. “I love you, Cat Grant.” God, the way she says your name—like a gospel, a prayer—you can’t open your eyes, but you smile wide—and probably ridiculous. A fool indeed—but a fool in love.

“Until the stars go dark, supergirl.”

* * *

You can’t breathe.

Your lungs press and push and twist—all the air escaping between each breath until you’re hollow and gasping and drowning in nothing. You’d been pushed down into this chair when they’d rolled her in—it’d taken three grown men in Kevlar vests to keep you out of the operating room, but you’d eventually collapsed. Holding your head between your hands you can’t pluck thoughts out of the clanking, and rattling, and ringing in your mind. You can’t hear anything but Kara’s cries—little half-gasped sobs that sour your stomach and brittle your heart. She says your name sometimes— _Cat, please, Cat_ —but most of it is just noises. Little wailing whines and half-thought groans.

Everywhere that you don’t _you_ , you’re numb—a creeping frost dragging itself through your blood and into your bones. Your skin prickles and the hair on the back of your arm stands on end. There’s something about being in your pajamas in a secret government facility in the middle of the night. Something odd and ill-fitted, but this is your life now, this is your reality. Carter’s—thankfully—at a friend’s house for the night, and Clark’s across the country in Metropolis. There isn’t anything they can do—except wait. You would never wish this uncertainty on them, this harrowing ache in your chest that is filling with everything that _can_ happen.

Black military boots, black tactical pants, and a pale blue surgical gown. Alex looks down at you with the forced detachment of someone who can’t be emotional—someone who has to breathe deep and actually _do_ something. Her hair is perfectly in place which means she’d already been here when you’d called in a panic—her mask around her chin, and her magnified glasses on her forehead. Like a flickering card from somewhere in your memory—of a moment months past when you’d begged Alex to save Kara, regardless of the consequences.

Can you make that same demand now?

“I need her, Alex.” You’re tired, so tired—all your energy has drained to the soles of your feet, bleeding away for every moment you stay motionless in this chair looking through the harshly polished glass into an empty observation room.

“We’re doing everything—,” she’s being comforting, and professional, and everything she’s supposed to be—but that isn’t what you need right now. You need someone who _feels_ this, you need the woman who kept your head above water when you felt like you were drowning. Alex had—somewhere along the line—become your best friend.

“Everything isn’t enough!” Standing now, hands in your hair you feel the tug at the roots until you can settle the hammering on your heart—until the _tha-thump_ was slowing. “There has to be some kind of alien medicine, or secret government machine.” Hell, you’ll go crawling to Maxwell Lorde if you have to—you don’t give a shit about something as asinine as dignity, or pride. Anything to keep Kara with you—to keep your little nugget with you.

There’s a lurching pain in your stomach, yanking at the back of your throat until it feels like everything you are has settled into the acid of your stomach. There’s a tugging and a constant pressure like you’re being slowly filled with warm air—pressing against your insides until your skin aches. You feel Kara more easily now—feel her mind brushing against the edges of your, digging in and trying to keep a hold on you. You can feel her falling away, almost being swept off but she’s holding tightly to you—her mind tucking into the edges of yours. It hurts—a bloodless festering pain—but Kara’s _here_ , even if it is only in mind.

“I need her, Alex.” You’re a broken record, a shattered disk that can no longer play music.

Alex purses her lips, stepping toward you until you can feel the brush of her surgical gown against your exposed ankles, “What you asked me,” a pause, “all those months ago—do you still—.” Do you still say damn the consequences if Kara survives. You see in her eyes that she knows the answer, but she needs you to say it—she needed you to untether that horrible restrained from around her hands.

Shaking your head, “No—I—no.” No, you can’t damn the consequences—because that abstract concept has grown and dug deep. You imagine futures at night when you can sleep—you never see the child, never see what color eyes, or what shaped nose. Just the pitter of small feet, and the wind chime of laughter from somewhere behind you.

“I’m going to save Kara,” words like a life raft, something to hold onto. “And I’m going to save your daughter.” _Daughter_ , like a punch to the chest. Firm and decisive—Alex turns and walks into the quarantine vestibule, a determined look on her face. How can you tell them that Kara’s body is giving up, but her mind is holding so tightly to you?

 _“I’m scared, Cat_.” You hear in your ear like a far off whisper—a murmur from the other end of a train tunnel. Standing up so that you can push through the double doors, and toss aside the hanging plastic curtains. On the other side of the glass is Kara—a tube down her throat, her fingers loose. _Don’t be_ , you think, because she looks so still. The color in her cheeks gone, the pallor below her eyes startling—like the years have caught up with her in moments.

“ _You’re here?_ ” Fuzzy now, like Kara’s losing grip, and you watch as the heart monitor jumps erratically—and then flattens. _I’m here, I’m here!_ Hands pressed against the glass, forehead hitting with more force than is necessarily, you can feel her startled heart on the back of your tongue. Your own heart hammers and stumbles, out of rhythm, and then back into it. One doctor is striking the paddles, while the others step away—Clear. Kara’s body bows from the table, and the monitor jumps back to life.

You’ve been focusing on Kara’s face for so long that you only now notice the doctor’s with bloody fingers—it’s startling against the white of his gloves and the pale blue of his gown. You’re nauseous, and scared, and Kara’s grasping at you—drawing you in, asking you to come closer. Your feet are moving, the icy blast of disinfecting air hits you square in the chest and you weave, but nothing can stop you now. “ _I need you_ ,” Kara’s saying, and you wonder if she knows what’s going on, if she can feel the ache in your chest, even if she can’t feel her own.

“Someone get her out of here!” It’s the nurse who had been monitoring Kara’s vitals, but you can barely hear her, too focused on getting to Kara. Bloody fingers wrap around your wrist and you realize you’ve gotten close enough to touch Kara’s face—shaking yourself from wherever you’d gone, you look down at the red, red, red blood now staining your skin. Sick to your stomach knowing its Kara’s.

“Ma’am, you need to leave,” someone asks it calmly, but you don’t know who. The monitors flatten again, the loud screaming beep filling the room—someone pushes you aside, no longer caring about whether or not you leave and just about starting Kara’s heart again. Clear—nothing. Her body bolts up, but there’s no difference made. Clear—nothing. You don’t like how her body lists and sags, like a puppet with cut strings.

Clear—nothing.

No—something—a crying baby.

You’re in a fog, lost somewhere in your mind where you’re keeping a strangle hold on the wispy edge’s of Kara’s consciousness through that bond that refused to leave. You can _feel_ her dying, feel how she should have already left her body—her consciousness going to where ever good Kryptonian’s go when they die. But you won’t let her go, you won’t let her leave. Her grip is loosening, and like nails in your brain, she’s scratching to keep a hold— _no,_ you think _, I’m not letting you go_.

You’re tired, so tired. Slouched down on the floor, breathing slowing—and slowing—and slowing. Your heart struggling because the mate it’d been paired with has stopped. It’s confused, and lonely, and trying so hard. But a baby’s crying—your _daughter_ is crying. The doctors are scrambling around, some pressing fingers to your neck, others rubbing the paddles to deliver another shock—some tucking the little bundle away in the bassinet across the room.

“They’re fucking linked, you idiot,” Alex is hissing, and you realize she’s the ne trying to pull your eyelids back. You barely see the light she’s shining in your eyes, but she must see something she likes because she stops doing it. “Kara dying must’ve gone through the bond to her.” There’s all kinds of implied _fucks_ involved in her tone, but you have to smile. Lazy, and sluggish, and you’re positive only half your face moves.

Dying—how weird is that.

“Mm,” humming softly, “not dead. I have her.” Kara’s with you, her consciousness banging against the edges of your mind, bouncing around that little black spots you’re gotten so good at ignoring. “Ri-ight here.” Lifting a lethargic hand to tap at your temple, Alex can only stare in confusion. _Tap, tap, tap_ ; and your hand falls. Dying feels cold—like you’d fallen into a frozen river, water spilling into your lungs.

“Fuck,” Alex is muttering, “Fuck, fuck—Cameron, take off the damn Kryptonite cuffs.” Fingers against your pulse, her other hand combing fingers through your hair. Your daughter’s still crying, and you want to get up—want to walk over to her and hold her. Let her know everything’s going to be alright. You watch through half-lidded eyes as someone with bloody fingers unlatches the iron bracelets around your wife’s wrists, hustling with them out of the room.

You don’t feel Kara anymore—like she’s gone away somewhere, and you’re scared that she’d actually gone. Swatting away Alex’s hand you try to stand, try to push yourself up from the floor—but you can only stumble and lay there. Tears blurring your vision, burning your eyes, you’re sobbing and shouting— _she’s gone, she’s gone_ —but you know the words are almost impossible to make out. You throw your mind out, trying to catch the wisps of Kara’s consciousness through the bond—but she’s gone, and the air is empty.

On the table, Kara’s body lurches as she takes a breath.

* * *

Alondra Marion Grant is born at 0341 on a Thursday.


	62. snap shot 62. ( 4, 16, 18 )

**SNAP SHOT (KATHERINE).** Your husband had been born to raise children—you imagine it’s because he was very much a child himself. He knew how to love unconditionally, he knew how to be patient—but you never learned those things properly. Never learned how to twist apart the messy aspects of children and hold fast to the important things at the center. You love your daughter—even if you don't know how to love well—but you don’t know how to save her from herself.

* * *

It’s strange coming home to laughter—the kind that belongs in Dicken’s novels, meant for everyone but the protagonist. Somewhere in the rising action, maybe just about the call to action for the protagonist—that moment when the _us_ and _them_ become just a little warped, just a little _wrong_. It’s funny how whole worlds can crumble on the backs of just a few characters in the magnificent realm created by words—there’s heroes, and villains, and all the people in between who are never really given names. Oh, they have groups and ideologies and beliefs, but there’s a madness to their collective recall—everyone knows everyone until they seem to know no one.

You’d purchased this house because it wasn’t in the center of the city, it had _land_ and privacy—the kind only afforded to people who had seven figures and a few favors. You’d cashed most of your late husband’s favors in when you’d considered the move. The smell of sick permeated in your nose in that horrendous brownstone in Metropolis. Like the scent had fused with the turn of the century lumber holding the walls up and the _unique_ crown molding that went much too far into the kitchen. Carter had called it _home_ with that lopsided smile of his—a jovial man who seemed capable of making any one place _home_.

You’d never had such a feeling.

The laugher coming from the backyard reminds you of that isolation—of being so near someone for so long and never really _understanding_ what made them tick. You never could understand when he’d fold you into a hug and kiss the crown of your head, content with whatever he’d been able to see that had made your marriage possible. Standing in the kitchen now you watch your daughter sprinting across the backyard—she’s beautiful. This isn’t the sullen shadow you watch haunting the upper floors, nor is it the cagey creature that reacts to every question like it’s an inquisition.

You know it’s your fault, you know that you don’t know how to love _well_ , but you wished she could understand in the same way her father did. That she would sift past the cold, and the brittle sharp edges and see that you just want to _help_ —that you want to love her in whatever way you can. Watching how she stands in the light whole shades brighter for the sun slanting through her gold hair. You want her to understand, but you suppose it isn’t in a child’s nature to understand—it isn’t their first thought to look _deeper_ and find reasons where mindless wonder will do.

The envelope in your hand crackles and folds in on itself—you’d gotten it earlier on in the day and had been carrying it around the office for the better part of the afternoon. It was the kind of letter that tipped scales and ignited tempers, and _so much_ of you wishes that this didn’t set yours ablaze—but you’re only human. Fallible, and confused, and angry. It was from the University of National City enthusiastically congratulating you on your daughter’s scholarship and acceptance to the university—that there was a summer parent orientation to form support systems.

Catharine had been hedging her answers for the last three months, and you should have noticed—should have sat her down until you’d gotten everything out of her. But you’d loosened your hold, and she went and did _this_. Throw her whole life away with nothing to show for it. Opening the sliding glass door that lead to the back walkway there’s only a moment that you go unnoticed. Catherine has a small boy lifted from under his arms—he’s smudged with dirt, that you can only imagine came from the collection of holes dug in the grass—and he’s _squealing_ with laughter.

He isn’t a new fixture to the household—you’ve come across him a handful of times and know he’s the cousin to that wretch of a girl Catherine feels the need to sponsor. You imagine he’s actually the child’s son but propriety says you aren’t allowed to accuse such things even if they are most certainly true. Your daughter’s putting him back on the ground and you expect him to go peeling off into the far lengths of the yard but instead he stills, and spins—watching you so suddenly it takes you aback. Floppy black hair in blue eyes that are disconcertingly bright—like the sun slips into them. Shaking your head and fully stepping off the raised dais of the porch and to the professionally set stones.

“Kitty,” your daughter’s spine straightens and she turns to you; her father’s green eyes narrowing, shoulder’s she’d most certainly inherited from Carter’s mother tensing. She’s a collection of traits that you both love and loath—your mother’s pointed chin, your father’s sloped cheekbones. Your own nose and lips. It’s funny how children are little walking collections—like living breathing artifacts of people going or gone. The green of her eyes is clearer than Carter’s—lush, even—but they always darken the moment after she sees you.

“Might I speak with you a moment?” A request, but you firm your tone so that is can be misconstrued as nothing but a order. You see how her lip curls for only a moment—a micro expression—until everything about her face smooths out and she goes bland at the eyes. It had been unnerving at first, how she corrals herself; tucking all those childish things you know exist in her in places you can’t see as readily. She kneels down beside the boy and smooths hair out of his eyes so that she can talk to him eye to eye.

“I’ll be inside for just a little bit, itty bitty heathen.” She’s _cooing_ —voice higher than you know is true, softer too, “then I’ll go take you for ice cream. Your cousin should be home by then.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Standing up she turns and walks past you to get into the kitchen, waiting just to the side so that she can slide the door closed once you’re inside. She’s watching you, eyes flickering down to the crushed papers in your hand—it’s impossible to see what they are, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “Doesn’t the boy have family?”

“Yeah,” you narrow your eyes at her. “Yes.” She corrects.

“Then why is he plundering my yard?”

“Two holes, mother. I’d hardly call that plundering.” She’s gotten bold these last few months—you blame that girl for that to. She’s a spineless little whip of a thing, but she’s somehow gotten your daughter to gladly fight her battles for her. You blame Carter’s influence for your daughter’s absurdly tender heart. “I offered to watch him while Kara’s at work. I didn’t really have much else to do, so why not?” She didn’t realize it, but she’d just set herself up for the questions she’s been avoiding.

“No essays to write for Wellesley? Martha was simply going on and on about how many personal essays her daughter had to write for admittance.” In fact you’d heard nothing _but_ stories about her precious, precious little delight of a spawn since the semester had ended—the girl must not sleep if the amount of community service, scholarship essays and general world saving was even slightly true.

Catherine swallows—she hides it well enough, but you’re her mother, and you see that slick harsh green of panic for just a flash before it was buried somewhere cold and away from you. “Nope,” she affects casually, ignoring how you _hm_ at the informal tone, even going so far as to lean back on the table. “Finished all my college requirements early.” She’s bold—bolder than even you’d realized she’d gotten. She’s looking you dead in the eyes and _lying_ —that _girl_ , you hate her with something cold and harsh in your heart. After all, she’s who has turned your daughter against you.

“Interesting,” there’s an ache of anger in your chest, it’s throbbing and pulsing and spreading into the crook of your fingers as you smooth out the edges of the paper you’re holding. “Could it be because you didn’t get into Wellesley?” _Snap_ , the paper is still somehow crisp when you shove it the slight distance—going so far as to grab her wrist when she doesn’t move to take it on her own. The tan of her skin going white beneath your fingertips as you force her fingers to hold the few sheets of paper that had _ruined_ everything you’d been building for the last decade.

She must see the brightly colored letters across the top that say _Welcome to National City University_ and the paragraphs of text below it. It must click in her mind—one little rusted wheel at a time—until she’s looking up at you with a harrowing look of realization. You _wish_ it was because she’s realized what a mistake she’s made, but you know it’s more likely than not for being caught.

“I got in,” she says quietly, not trying to take her hand back, not pulling at all, “I got in.” A little louder this time, and if anything she steps closer so that she can fully take the papers. “I’m just not going.”

 _Smack_.

You don’t remember moving, just the burn in your palm and the look of fear in her eyes—there’s a little blank moment between _not going_ and how heavily your chest is rising and falling. Licking your lips, you stay where you are—looming in the heels you wore to the office and your daughter being barefoot. “You don’t get to just decide that you’re _not going_.” No, you’ve worked too hard to get her where she is—across the whole damned country so that she wasn’t moping in her room, or wallowing in the halls. You gave her a fresh start, and made sure she lived up to her potential.

“I’m not going,” she says with a wobbling chin and tears in her eyes—like stained green glass, but she bites her lip and turns back around. One of her cheeks is reddening, “I want to stay in National City. You never asked me if I wanted to go to Wellesley—you never _asked_.” Like this was your worst transgression, like this was somehow _your_ fault. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have nothing, to be _nothing_ , and you’re only trying to protect her from that knowledge—from that hurt.

She’s going to be someone, even if you have to force her.

“I don’t ask asinine questions; there’s no logical reason to not go. No one could turn you away with a Wellesley education—don’t be stupid, girl.”

“It’s not stupid to want to stay, mother. I have things here I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to move across the country, I don’t want to go to school with no one I know. I just—,” she inhales, and with a draw of her brow she continues. “This is what I want. Can’t you understand that?” She’s hedging still, and it makes your chest burn all the more—because why won’t she just say it? Why can’t she shatter all your hard work with _the truth_?

So you accuse, “you’re staying for that girl.”

And she smiles—it’s wide, and careless, and Carter’s grin. Foolhardy and brave, the kind of grin those scrappy heroes have in romance novels, and the knowledge sinks to the pit of your stomach like a stone. You’d known—there was no way _not_ to know—but somehow you’d missed how deeply your daughter had dug the hole she resided in. You could hardly see the gold crown of her head with how deeply she’d become entrenched in this truth of hers.

“Yes,” it isn’t a curse, but it sounds like one with how easily it slips off her tongue. _Yes, yes, yes_. “Is that so wrong?”

“You’re throwing your whole life away for some girl who’ll forget you in a few months?”

“Kara isn’t like that, she isn’t.” Her protest is firm, and you know she believes her own words—in the solid perfection that is her world at the moment. How it must feel to be young again—to believe in things so universally that you can’t imagine being wrong. “And it isn’t just for her. I don’t want to go to Wellesley, I don’t want to be who you want me to be, mother. I just—I just want to be me.”

Sneering, “And who are _you_?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Resolve is such an ugly look; it sits in how her brows furrow, and how her lips press. She looks like your mother suddenly—set firmly in her ways, however wrong they are. She’s edging around you like she thinks you might lash out again, but your arms are like lead, and your heart is stone. She’s only a few feet away, but it feels like miles and miles. Every step away is another wasted investment, useless effort and purposeless direction. She’s derailing and you can only watch because you refuse to pander to her—refuse to try and make her understand.

She’ll regret this, and she’ll come crawling back.

“I have to take Clark home,” she’s already sliding the door open, already stepping into the sun—she’s beautiful still, even behind the veil of your anger and the mist of something like sadness. Stone dust erupting from the coughing fissures in your heart.

“Don’t expect the doors to be unlocked.” She wants her life— _this life_ —she can have it all she likes, she can live with this decision. She doesn’t want your help, she doesn’t want all the things you sold and traded away to give her these chances—fine, she won’t have them. Some little voice—that sounds suspiciously like Carter—says you’re being _childish_ , but you wave it away until it’s only hollow wind in your ears.

Catherine smiles, “I figured.” You can hardly hear how she whispers, “I love you” while closing the door.


	63. snap shot 63. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**. _The love songs don’t put in all the details, and you really wished they would have. There’s little gaps in understanding, and you splice them through with television plots and movie scenes. Being a teenage human is so very difficult sometimes._ //

* * *

First you try every fancy restaurant you can name.

Most say they simply cannot make any available reservations for at least two months—some even closer to a year—and you don’t understand how someone can wait that long for dinner. You can’t even wait for how long it takes the microwave to drastically heat your hot pockets. The few restaurants you actually walk into to ask about reservations makes it blatantly clear that you aren’t their typical clientele. You want to tell them that it isn’t for _you_ that you understand that you aren’t really meant for hundred dollar plates and thousand dollar bottles of wine.

You’d told Cat that she didn’t have to worry about anything—that you’d plan the whole date—and you regret that decision the moment it’s out of your mouth. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know _how_ to date. You’ve been on this planet for almost three years but it seems like only moments when you’re neck deep in customs that you’ve really only seen in movies and television. Dinner, and a movie; making a lasting impression, but is it the same if the person you’re dating already knows you so well?

Mister Callaghan finds you wallowing behind the counter and he lets you be for all of five minutes before making you help with stock—he likes to think he’s _making_ you, but he knows you’d offer to help anyway. He’s determined to be a gruff old man, even when sneaking you candy from his pockets.

“Don’t see who you’re trying to impress,” he offers while sliding a children’s picture book onto the shelf.

“Cat! I’m trying to impress Cat,” you’re slouched against the top rungs of the sliding ladder. “I don’t want her to—I don’t know—regret agreeing.”

“Oh, kiddo.” He sighs, finally turning around to face you gray-blue eyes squinting behind his thick glasses, “you could bring her to a McDonald’s and she’d be glad to be there.” Stopping for a moment, he raises a hand to point at you, “but don’t do that, it’s mighty disrespectful.” You’d considered going to see a movie, but there was nothing playing that Cat would want to see—she’d been pretty adamant about that. You’d considered cheap restaurants, but they just seemed _wrong_ somehow.

“Take her someplace that means something to you,” Mister Callaghan says while shuffling back to the store room and looking through the pallet of books that had been dropped off earlier. “That girl of yours doesn’t want perfect salmon steaks, or loud action movies—she wants to spend some time with you, kiddo.” And you had an idea—you asked him to help, and he’d been delighted to. Your heart was racing, but you were confident in your idea. It was the kind of romantic thing that you’d see in a movie.

Which meant, it had to inevitably go wrong.

You’d set up a picnic at the top of a hill; proper checkered blanket, wicker basket, the whole thing. Cat meant you at the edge f the park and it took half the walk to work up the courage to hold her hand—and she didn’t pull away. If anything she leaned into your side and smiled. It was perfect. Flat on your back, you’d coaxed Cat to do the same.

“I was going to take you to the planetarium, but the night worker there’s pretty creepy.” You’d pointed out the constellations, tracing them with your finger until Cat was following suit. You tell her about missing stars—about how some of the little specks of light are actually from stars that have long since died.

“Sometimes it takes a thousand years for the light to reach us,” you think of Rao, of how your sun was dead, but something about how you bristle must give Cat the idea that something was wrong, because she shifts on to her side to that she can look at you. Her fingers against the inside of your wrist.

“So, in a way,” she says quietly, “they’re still alive.”

Her words are like a balm—it’s nothing you haven’t thought of before, but it always seemed like wistful thinking when you’d whispered the words into the dark after a nightmare. Rao’s light was still there for you, still existed—even if Krypton didn’t.

Cat’s warm and comfortable, her head on your shoulder, her finger raised to trace the curve of Orion’s belt—when the sky breaks. One moment there’s perfect stillness, the next buckets of water are pouring down until even the trees rattle and groan in protest. Cat yelps and you scramble—you’re both soaked in moments. Cat’s beautiful dress and perfectly matching shoes are splattered in moments as she dives for the safety of a large oak tree—she’s pushing waves of blonde hair out of her eyes. Watching as you shove the blanket in the basket and try to sprint down the hill—only to trip and slide half the length of the slope on your back. You’re sputtering through mud while righting yourself and finding shelter under a tree.

When it’s clear that the rain isn’t going to stop Cat makes the decision of tugging you out into the storm—lightning shatters the dark, and thunder breaks the silence. Cat’s grinning and tipping her head back to look at the sky—completely oblivious, it seems, to the rain pouring over her face. She’s carefree and gorgeous like this. Her fingers curl through yours and you’re hopelessly devoted to following her anywhere. The rain’s nice, soaking through your clothes, washing away a little of the mud. You’re close to apologizing a few different times, but she just tugs you along a little faster and you’re trying your best to keep your feet under you.

You can fly, but it’s much harder to stay properly on the ground.

It is quiet this time of night—summer spilling through the gaps in the trees, tugging at your hair, throwing it into the snap of an eastern wind. You can hear the city around you—removed, like you’ve covered your ears—turned down the world until you couldn’t hear the creak of the door on the second floor of the office building on the other side of town. To a manageable level; so that you had to concentrate—just a little—to hear Cat’s heart murmuring beside you. A calm, strong sound that you could recognize anywhere—recognize it more readily than your own. Her heart is a statement—louder than any words she has—it is a statement of self, and you love that about humanity.

All their hearts flutter differently.

Hers is butterfly wings and summer rain—flitting and light, soothing and constant. It hums along inside your chest, like you’ve simply borrowed the rhythm. She brushes your arm every few steps, and you can’t help looking over at her—Cat’s looking straight ahead, like she could be walking beside anyone at this moment, but the smile on her lips clues you in. You love her smile—it reminds you of the stained glass you’d seen in cathedrals. Bright, and beautiful—shards of glass that paint the sunlight into a rainbow of color; how even if they looked fractured, they were just pieces of a brilliant whole.

“I had fun,” she says, small finger brushing against yours.

You cringe, “It was a disaster.”

Cat laughs and takes two large steps so that she can walk in front of you while walking backwards, “It was, wasn’t it?” She’s smiling, wide and bright, and you wished she did it more. You get so many smirks, so many half-grins, little wry expressions that match the spark in her eyes and the quirk of her brow. But— _Rao_ is she gorgeous when she smiles. You’ve seen stars, bigger and brighter than Earth’s sun, and they pale in comparison to Cat Grant’s smile.

“It really was,” you agree, taking a slightly larger step so that you’re closer to her—she just hops back further, always staying two steps away.

She hums, looking up, like a pit hasn’t formed in your stomach—you don’t understand what it would feel like to throw up, but you imagine it starts with a feeling like this one. A hard knot low in your abdomen, which expands and hollows out your stomach. She’s looking at you, eyes squinted—really looking at you—and you hazard a shrug, lagging enough that she gains an extra step between you.

You’re looking at the ground, though really her ankles.

You’re not paying attention—or just not _enough_ attention—because she’s stopped, and before you realize it, small delicate hands have wrapped into the collar of your jacket and she’s pulling you close. Her breath on your chin, her knuckles brushing your sternum through the thin material of your shirt. Blinking owlishly, you find her eyes—bristling gems of green, and her eyebrow is quirked, lips curved into a grin.

“Listen, supergirl, and listen well,” she’s shaking you slightly, her whole body needed to move you properly, but she doesn’t seem to mind, “A little rain isn’t going to scare me away, so stop worrying.” You must look like an idiot—gaping at her as she bends you forward so that you’re eye level with her. You’re searching for something in the green of her eyes, you don’t even know exactly what, but something says you’ll recognize it when you see it.

And there it is—a shiver of uncertainty that she’s shoved way down.

She’s just as nervous as you are about this whole mess—she’s worried about the mud caked onto her legs and shoes, and across the back of your jacket. Whenever her hands aren’t occupied, she’s slicking her blonde hair back—all of the perfectly coiffed curls long gone from the rain. The edges of her eyes smudged slightly with what used to be perfectly applied mascara, lips pale since all the gloss had been wiped off. She’s nervous, and scared, and holding you just a little too close, and a little too tightly. And you love it.

You like this feeling in your chest that throbs and spreads—this feeling that says _she’ll never let go_. That cold little chip in your martian heart that says that nothing is permanent, nothing is absolute—you’re whole _planet_ is gone, wiped from the stars as if it had never been there. You search the black at night trying to find hints of rock and debris that could have been _home_. You sit in the light pollution of a city and try to tell yourself that this could be your new home—that Earth wasn’t going anywhere, that it was solid, and true, and forever.

You don’t know if you believe in forever.

“I always worry,” the truth slips out between all the placations of _I’m fine_ , and _alright_ , because you want to tell her the truth—want to open her eyes to everything else that’s out there, but you know you can’t. You know that’s just not possible.

“Do you trust me?” she’s talking softly, a whisper of breath against your chin, then your lips as you tilt your head down a bit to catch her eyes. Her thumbs smoothing the space between your brows. Despite the words being almost flippant, there’s a seriousness to her—an urgent earnestness.

“Of course,” automatic, simple, as you wish everything else was.

“Then can you trust that the next ten minutes will be perfect?” Her heat is bleeding through her clothes, and you suddenly realize that she must be cold—its summer, but the wind seems to fill in all those moments between rain storms.

“And the ten minutes after that?” And after that—and after that. A life time ten minutes at a time.

“Who knows? But we’ll deal with it together, Kara.” Her lips look pale, but they’re warm when she presses them to yours; her fingers tightening on the collars of your shirt, one hand slipping to the back of your neck to keep you close. As if you’d wish to be anywhere else. She’s small in your grip, the jut of her hip against your left palm, the smooth curve of her cheek in your right. Cat Grant kisses like she’s trying not to dent the first snow of winter—softly, carefully. Like she doesn’t wish to disrupt the picture presented.

“I like that,” you say against her mouth, breaths mingling. “Stronger together.”

You want to tell her that you’ve seen planets made of diamond, and comet’s trailing glass through the vacuum of space—you’d visited collapsing stars, and seem places where time doesn’t exist. And all of that—a galaxy’s worth of wonder—pales in comparison to how she’s looking at you right now. Like you might be able to give her back things she hadn’t considered retrieving before; things lost that she’d stopped looking for.

“We are, aren’t we?” Cat says with a wide smile. She’s just a girl—in all the ways that a hurricane is _just_ a storm, and the Bible is _just_ a book. You wonder if there’s a language that could really define her—maybe the musical tones of the Pyronese, or the silent vibrations of the Doshea. The sky crackles, a rolling rumble from somewhere far in the distance, chased quickly with a bolt of lightning. Cat steps closer, and you feel the line of her against your chest—the pitter of her heart, the strong pull of her lungs. You could drown in her humanity if you weren’t careful; forget all about the rust red of Krypton and the black of space. And just—live here, in the green of her eyes and the gold of her hair.

Just as you’re about to lean down to kiss her again—giddy with the knowledge that you can do this now, that you don’t have to balk and hedge—there’s a tingle down your spine. A vibration beginning in your bones and spilling out into every other part of you. You feel the crackle of electricity in your nostrils, the scent of copper strong in the air and you just _know_ something is wrong. Like a hound scenting blood in the air, you feel the pull across town—a currant running through you and somehow fizzling out where your hands touch Cat’s waist and the softness of her cheek.

“I have to go pick Clark up,” you say instead of _something’s wrong_ , “I promised Miss Alvarez I’d be there by ten.” You had promised that, but you know she’ll forgive you if you’re a little late—she always does. Cat smiles at the mention of Clark and you know this could never be a mistake—you see how she loves him, like he’s her own. And it astounds you this girl’s capacity to love—you know her mother, know the chipping cold that lives inside the woman, and wonder how she learned to love so completely. Maybe it was Carter Grant—a man you never will be able to meet, but know so much about.

“And we can’t have you breaking promises now, supergirl.” She’s looking at you with expectation, and it isn’t until she glances down at your lips that you know what she wants—it’s exactly what you want. Face between your palms, you kiss her with everything that you are. When you pull back only half an inch, she’s laughing softly, “Keep kissing me like that and I just might forget all about your integrity.” But she’s stepping back, smoothing down your lapels and blinking away the blush on her cheeks. You _know_ you must be bright red, but there’s nothing to hide because you’d so—so— _smitten_.

“You should come by the Apple,” impromptu, impulsive, but you can’t imagine spending so much time apart after tonight, “Clark wants to camp in the store—s’mores, scary stories, the works.” You want her to say _yes_ so much, and that little niggling worry in your chest tries to wiggle free from where you’d shoved it—but you’re with Cat, and your ten minutes aren’t up, and you know you have nothing to worry about.

“That sounds positively juvenile,” airy and with a careless wave of her wrist, “Count me in.”

Cat’s walking backwards towards where she parked her car—in one of those expensive lots because she’s convinced that doing anything else will leave her car on blocks. The tingle is getting worse, like licking a battery—not that you’ve ever done that, (you’ve done that)—the charge is jittering like change is your pocket, pulling along your nerve endings. It isn’t pain, but it’s a pressure; something that demands your attention. Once you’ve seen that her car has been pulled from the stacks and parked out front, you exhale and push away all your false humanity.

Something’s happening downtown, and you have to make it back home in time for s’mores.


	64. snap shot 64. ( 2, 14, 16 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA)**. _There's so much you don't know, so much you pretend to understand; sometimes you can only hope that you're making a proper show of being something that you most certainly aren't. Human, being one. A high-school student, another._

* * *

Cat had explained everything last night while you’d sprawled across her bed with Clark crawling across your body every few seconds. She’d been tearing through her closet for the better part of an hour trying to find something for you to wear to your _interview_ —you hadn’t understood why it mattered what you wore considering it was how you did mathematics that seemed to matter. An ironed shirt didn’t help or hinder that in any way—but she’d been adamant while lifting shirts of every color up against your body and shaking her head. Apparently red clashed with your eyes, and purple made you look sick—she seemed to like how you looked in green, only to get mad when asking your opinion because you’d simply shrugged.

“This has to go well, Kara,” she’d said while tossing another shirt onto the bed before turning back to her closet and disappearing.

“I—but Cat—I will just do the mathematics for them.” You wanted this _scholarship_ even if you couldn’t care less about what humans did in their learning prisons—Cat never seemed too pleased about going, but she was _thrilled_ about the idea of you getting to go with her. Just the _idea_ of being able to spend the actual day with her was enough to encourage you to make your best effort—Mister Callaghan had said he’d watch Clark in the afternoon. He’d seemed warmer somehow still, smiling wide when you’d told him about the possibility of this _scholarship_. He’d said that he was _proud_ of you, and it suddenly occurred to you that you wanted to make him proud, wanted to make him smile.

“It isn’t just maths, Kara—it’s—they have to _like_ you.” A shoe tossed out then, something glittery and small, “there’ll be other people trying to get the scholarship, the waiting list for my school’s, like, ridiculously long. _Years_ long.”

Which is how you ended up in a room with four other people—humans around Cat’s age, most tucked into neat blazers and pressed slacks. The other two girl were carefully sitting in their pleated skirts, very similar to the uniform Cat wears when she attends her learning prison— _school_. The skirt you’d borrowed from Cat was a little short, and her blouse a little tight—she’d tried to hide it beneath a jacket that was—somehow—too large. Everything was generally the same color—but somehow Cat’d been mad at how they weren’t the _same_ kind of blue. You wanted to tell her that even her uniform wasn’t the same shades of blue until you’d realized human color spectrums weren’t as discerning as your own. You thought you looked fine, but she’d sighed like she’d failed and told you to _be yourself_ , before tacking on _but not too yourself_.

You wondered if that was some kind of equation that was going to be asked—how much of yourself was too much—but there seemed to just be long stretches of time in silence. The teenagers all bicker quietly, stopping whenever they hear footsteps, only to continue in the silence. They seem antagonistically friendly—insulting with smiles, and it reminds you of Cat. She’s far prettier, but there’s a grinning meanness to these humans that seems to skirt off the others casually.

“Abby, I don’t know why you’re bothering—considering how badly you fucked up at the placement fair,” a boy says with a crooked grin. His glasses slide down his nose a little and he shoves them back up until he can properly glare through the lenses.

“At least I placed, Robbie, which is more than I can say about you. We all know your mom bought you this interview.”

It took them about a half hour to really notice you—maybe it was because you hadn’t been at this fair of questionable execution. It’d been the only other quiet person in the room—a pale boy with close cropped black hair and a grin beset with braces. “I don’t remember you from the circuit.” It hadn’t been too loud, but it had gotten everyone’s attention. Four sets of eyes turn and you can suddenly _feel_ how empty this room full of furniture is—there’s nothing _lived_ about it, nothing _warm_. There’s a chill in the air, and no feeling in the walls.

“Uh, I—I do mathematics, a—,” you stumble, clearing your throat and sitting a little further into your seat. You can hear your own heart—beating like a trapped person within your chest. Their hearts are thundering as well—loud, _impossibly_ loud now that you can’t ignore them. _Tha-thump, tha-thump_. You can feel the blood rushing in their veins inside your teeth, like the crimson is slicking around your teeth. You try to remember everything Cat had said to say; but you can only remember an excited man hitting the table with a moist hand, and how she’d smiled at you. “A—uh—a drinking man invited me.”

 _That_ hadn’t gone over well, which was why you’d left the cloying thickness of the room and followed the _pitter_ of a humming bird’s wings. Soft, quick, and somewhere far away—which had been the most important part. The hallways got darker, the windows closed to prevent sunlight from filling the long stretches. The walls were no longer filled with priceless art, but with awkward photographs of a family—a willow of a woman, and a stone of a man. Between them a young boy dressed like a little soldier, his gray eyes solemn, and his mouth severe.

It’s so strange to see a man’s eyes in a boy’s face.

At the end of a hall is a room—the windows thrown open to allow a cool breeze and plenty of sunlight. The _pitter_ echoes off the walls and you know you’d found the source. Pressing your teeth together to quell the vibrations of the noise, you look around. It’s a library—thousands of books lining carefully crafted shelves. A large silver and black globe spins unassisted in the middle of the room, a bright red laser dot pointing to whatever is under the pointer.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” the voice is tripping over itself, an inflection— _accent_ , you remember—you aren’t used to, but the _pitter_ gets louder. Spinning around you find the source; a little girl—maybe four or five—behind thick glasses, her hands shoved into the crooks of her arms. She’s _tiny_ , and you really can’t make much out beyond the large glasses and the unruly black hair.

“I—I got lost,” you stammer.

She’s considering you, but not stepping any closer—if anything she takes a step away, “you don’t seem lost. You looked like you was—looking for something.” Her voice is whistling a little through the gap in her smile, but you understand what she’s saying—even through her thick accent.

“No, maybe? I mean—yes, yes I was. Can you hear it?” The _pitter_ speeds up, and when the girl steps closer—it gets louder. Furrowing your brow, you take a step toward her and the noise thickens. _It’s her heart_. It seemed fast enough for a hummingbird’s flapping wings, but the closer she got the more easily you could dissect the sound— _tha-ta-ta-thump tha-ta-ta-thump_. She’s dressed in a uniform—pleated skirt, knit vest and tie, with a perfectly bleached ironed white shirt beneath it all.

“Hear what?” She’s curious, drifting closer until you can make out that her eyes are grayish green and her cheeks are spattered with very faint freckles. She looks delicate in ways that aren’t just inherently because she is such a tiny human, but because her forearms are so thin and her collarbones press into the white of her shirt.

You can’t say _your heart_ , but softer then the whisper of air through the vents is the muffled hum of music. The notes are singular and circular—going around and around—drawing you closer to the windows spanning the whole wall. The plush chair looks like it’s been dragged there with much effort, and under the intricate pillow is a small wooden box cracked just enough that the pin isn’t compressed, and the music keeps playing. Grabbing it carefully and opening it fully the little dancer springs up and begins spinning. The girl’s watching you with careful eyes, not shuffling any closer but not moving away either. “Music,” you say, watching the little white and green dancer spin—her leg out and arms bowed gracefully over her small ceramic head. “I heard it in the hall.”

 Just as it winds down, there’s the _click, click_ of the little metal tong resetting at the beginning, and then it starts again. “It’s yours?” You ask, glancing up for the first time to see how the girl has folded in on herself—brow drawn, eyes set. “It’s very beautiful.” Extending the open box, the girl quickly snaps it away until she’s cradling it against her chest.

“It was me mum’s.” There’s a protectiveness in the way she says the words, as if she’s waiting for someone to tell her she’s done something wrong—encouraging the challenge, even. But you can only focus on the _was_ , on that past tense that drills so easily into your bones—because— _because_. It’s in how she curls around the music box, how her brittle little arms cage it away from harm. There’s a dance in the way she moves, nothing rhythmic or smooth—it’s the jerky shake of someone who has lost someone. Containing the tremble, shifting through the pain.

“It’s beautiful.” You say again because you can’t tell her _me too_ , or _I’m sorry_. She places it on the table, opening the lid so that the dancer can begin her twirl anew. “I—it’s not a music box—but,” pulling the cord from around your neck, the metal is warm against your palm. Your mother’s pendant reacts to your skin, heating up slightly before cooling and darkening. The metals protesting to the light of day, usually tucked carefully into high collars and jackets. “This was my mother’s.”

Grayish eyes blink and she steps forward before she seems to realize, balking slightly but then bolstering under the need to prove herself. Small fingers toy with the knots in the necklace before ghosting over the pendant itself. “It’s hot.” It must seem very warm to her touch, because even you can feel the difference.

“It’s the only one like it in the whole world.” Maybe all the worlds. So many must be spattered through the black of space, slipping between asteroids and Rao’s light.

The girl’s quiet for a minute, “Where is she?”

“She—uh, she died.” Swallowing and barely preventing yourself from curling your fingers around the pendant—pressing your teeth together until you had some kind of collar on your emotions. They were still there, bubbling just below the surface, but they only broke so much. “My home was in danger, so she sent me away.”

Little fingers touch your palm, then your wrist—she isn’t looking at you, but she isn’t trying to swallow space, isn’t trying to dare you with her eyes. She’s calm, and sad, and so very small. “My mum died too.” Small words, thick and heavy, “She was sick. Me brother too.” Leaving the pendant in her hold, you grab the music box off the table and place it on the floor where you’ve both somehow ended up. She’s toying with the necklace, glancing at you out of the corner of her eyes.

“I’m Kara.”

Biting her lip, “I’m Lena.”

Smiling wide until there’s the slightest bit of a grin on her face in return.

A throat clears and both of you snap to look toward the door—a severe man in a perfectly put together suit lingers in the doorway. Steel blonde hair and a trimmed beard complete the cool appearance, gray eyes half narrowed don’t match the smile on his face. Standing abruptly he seems slightly taken aback before stepping into the room. The shadows around him shift, and as if choreographed the sun dips behind a cloud outside, stealing most of the light.

“I was wondering where my last interview wandered off to,” his voice is calm and deep, his hands tucked casually into his pocket. “I see you’ve met my daughter, Miss Callaghan. I’m Lionel Luthor.”


	65. snap shot 65. ( 5, 17, 19 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _You try to pretend that “how” and “why” mean nothing to you—you say you don’t want to look back. But crawling months leave you with too much time to watch the footprints you leave behind fade away—sizzle off into the encroaching summer air. Excuses to sort through everything and then push it down into the dark parts of yourself you try not to mind._

* * *

“What’re you going to do, Kitty?” Your mother had asked you, her hand waving her glass of expensive scotch around, the ice clattering. “Dipping your toes into how the other side lives doesn’t prepare you to _live_ there.” You’d swallowed just enough of your pride to go back to your house—no, your _mother’s_ house—and get a few things. You’d planned to do it while she was at the office regaling everyone with whatever flavor of the week she was wine glass over wallet for. Of course she’d come home as you were shoving clothes into a suitcase—wrapping framed pictures in shirts, tucking away trinkets you couldn’t imagine living without.

She’d all but ignored you until you’d lugged the first suitcase to the bottom of the stairs—lounging in her wingback chair in the sitting room, sipping a drink like nothing outside the norm was going on. She looked older somehow, like she’d forgotten to hide the bags beneath her eyes—like she’d forgotten for a moment to be cold, and untouchable. “I don’t really have much in the way of options, mother.” You’d said, aiming for unaffected, and you’d apparently succeeded, because her gray eyes had narrowed and her painted lips lifted into something that could be _mistaken_ for a smile, but was definitely a sneer. “You made that abundantly clear.”

She’d assumed you would move in with Kara—but that wasn’t plausible, even if she offered you half her bed, and the entirety of her closet. You hadn’t wanted to put her out, even if she didn’t see it that way. You’d started looking at apartments, you’d started looking for a job—two things you hadn’t been prepared for in the slightest, but you wouldn’t let your mother’s condescending tone worm its way into your mind more than it already was.

You’d only had to make it a few weeks to the beginning of the semester—most of it spent at hotels that had no problem with open ended stays and credit cards on file. And when you didn’t fall asleep to the whine of wind against double sided windows and the muffled chitter of televisions through the wall—you were huddled down with Kara in her twin size bed. You always slept against the wall because Kara had the tendency to sprawl—an arm here, an elbow there. Once or twice she ended up on the floor unceremoniously—the first time you’d been on the outside of the mattress and she’d taken you with her. The tumble had set up a few rules—you slept on the inside, separate blankets so that others didn’t get dragged along for the ride, and first one up made the coffee.

You were never the first one up.

Moving into the dorm had seemed like a bad choice only two months ago, but it had become a blessing—it started a new chapter in your life you could understand. You had your head above water again for the first time in what felt like weeks. Classes, deadlines, social events—you could do all that with your eyes closed. You’d expected to have an amiable relationship with your roommate—hello and goodbye, maybe a consolatory offer to hang out every so often. Instead you’d met someone who seemed to _know_ you from the start. Marion Washington was a woman after your own heart—if yours wasn’t already ridiculously spoken for—she was majoring in English Literature, minoring in something art related.

“Catherine Grant,” she’d said while shaking your hand the first time. “I figured you were at least sixty eight years old and finally had the courage to go back to school—do you know you have an old lady name?”

“Says the one who sounds like she’s married to one of the founding fathers.”

She’d smiled—wide and dimpled, the lucky bitch—and pulled you into some awkward kind of half-hug that also involved a shoulder punch. Marion was two parts quintessential nerd, one part party girl and one part _bro_ —as she liked to claim—and it was just the right kind of friendship to pull you out of the possibility of feeling sorry for yourself. One drunken night you’d broken like a damned twig cursing and scowling into her horrible polyester blend sweater about your mother—the things you didn’t want to tell Kara because she was noble, and sweet, and would break herself around you so you wouldn’t shatter yourself. You didn’t need that—not when the hurt was still fresh—no, you needed that devil may care smile that Marion seemed to have in abundance. You weren’t specific, but she must have seen something because she’d pulled you close.

“Wanna T.P. her house?”

Twenty rolls of toilet paper, a bottle of tequila and a blood pact later you’d cemented each other as best-friends. There was dancing, and chanting—not that you’ll ever remember what exactly happened between stealing through the woods at the end of the property and wrapping each and every ornamental garden piece your mother owned in toilet paper. It was cathartic, it was freeing. A little less so when Kara came to pick you both up in her grandfather’s station wagon and drive you back to campus—she didn’t have a permit, but Mister Callaghan was from an era that didn’t believe in fundamental driving laws.

She could reach the pedals, she was fine.

Working as a receptionist at Enforce Publishing wasn’t the _best_ salary, but it was steady and you could study for class in the off-hours. When writers at their creative ends weren’t storming the building in fits of artistic passion. You saved, and saved, and saved—actually eating something that was prepared _entirely_ in a microwave on a disquieting basis. One semester—two semester. You had enough for a down payment on an apartment—you thought. Circling ads in the paper and going to walk through left you with an inch on your skin that you tried to tell yourself wasn’t fleas, and a hazy smoke that clung to your clothes so badly you donated them to Good Will.

“So, this summer—I plan on finding a place,” you’d said to Marion one night, still flipping pages in a math textbook that wasn’t getting any easier the longer you stared.

“Cool, cool.” There’d always been a kind of distracted ease to Marion; like she was always only half present, kind of drifting through. Until everything snapped into focus and she had you pegged with dark eyes at ten paces. “When’re we moving? Which side of town? I’m a lower-east kind of gal, but I’m not too picky.” You’d tried to sputter and shove off the comment, but you’d been working up to asking her the better part of the week.

Eventually, you’d found one—or rather, Mister Callaghan had—on the lower-west side, only a handful of blocks away from the bookstore. The building was built somewhere around the turn of the last century—the radiators attached to the bathroom wall proved that—and no matter how many coats of bright white paint went up in the lobby, you can’t ignore the water stains on the ceiling. Your neighbors play loud music, and congregate in the hallway, but there’s a kind of satisfaction of signing a lease for the first time. The building manager was in his forties and wore a tank top that probably had been white—once upon a time—and he’d licked his fingers before he touched anything.

“Big commitment, girlie.” He’d commented with the drawling sleaze of someone who thought their receding hairline made them _distinguished_. The yellowing around his dishwasher gray eyes said he probably had a few vices that were less than legal, but that wasn’t so unheard of.

“That’s Miss Grant,” Mister Callaghan had rumbled, even in his seventies, he’s a sledgehammer of a man—broad and tall, even if he needed a cane to walk. He’d read through the whole lease, crossing things out and explaining why he’d done so—clauses that prevented any changes to locks, and little regulations you wouldn’t have even thought to second guess.

You’d told him more than once that he didn’t need to close the store to come with you—even tried to slip away once he’d made up his mind. You finally got why Kara had such a hard time getting anything past the old man—he’d found you like a blood hound following a trail. He’d just smiled—face folding with happiness, his whole life dug into the delicate wrinkles at the edges of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He’d extended an elbow and waited for you to slip yours through his.

“Someone’s got to look after you,” soft, kind, and you’d felt choked up—tears slicking through your lashes, though you’d blinked them away harshly enough that they never had a chance to fall. “Can’t have one of my girl’s roped into a scam, now can I?” Mister Callaghan made caring seem easy, like it never occurred him to be anything else—so you’d relented.

It felt good to know someone cared—not in the abstract way your own mother exhibits, but with warm consideration and freely given time. You feel like a queen surveying her kingdom—all nine hundred and fifty four square feet of it. Two bedrooms, one full bath and a strange hybrid kitchen, living room, dining room. The window leading to the fire escape was cracked, and the air conditioner blocking the other was broken and leaking slightly—you can hear the traffic four floors down, and the jangle of keys from the hallway.

“Was this a mistake?” You ask because suddenly this seems like the biggest choice you’ve ever made—bigger than picking a college, bigger than kissing Kara for the first time. Those had seemed simple in comparison—you couldn’t imagine your life without the Callaghan clan; without how Kara watches you with soft blue eyes, or how Clark climbs you like a jungle gym. Or how Mister Callaghan just seems to _care_ without expectation.

“Does it feel like one?” He asks from where he’s replacing the screws in the doorframe—removing the fickle one inch ones, and putting in long carpenter screws that could stand up to someone kicking the door.

“I mean,” hedging softly, “if you could feel a mistake, would anyone make them?”

“Of course,” he’s almost gleeful, “some my best moments were big old mistakes. Know that now—knew it then too. A mistake isn’t always bad, it isn’t always wrong—just usually tends to be if you aren’t minding yourself.” Turning around you watch how he taps the walls that the apartment shares with the hallway, nodding at whatever he finds. Blinking foggy gray eyes at you from behind well-polished glasses, he smiles.

“What if I’m not ready? What if—what if everything just—” _just_ what? Falls apart? Crumbles? You know how quickly solid things seem to slide away. Your father was healthy as an ox—until he suddenly wasn’t. “I have nowhere to go if this doesn’t work.” Like staring into a pit and realizing you can’t see the bottom—worse, realizing you’d walked yourself to the edge with no one’s help.

Mister Callaghan laughs—the loud boisterous laughter you’d grown used to hearing when you helped sort books at the Apple, or spent one Sunday every month with the whole Callaghan clan having a _picnic_ which was really just the loosest chaos allowed in a public place. “Oh, sweetheart,” he’s wiping a tear from his cheek while walking toward you. When he’s close enough that you can smell his Old Spice aftershave and see the gleam in his gray eyes he pokes you affectionately in the shoulder.

“If I’ve learned anything about you, Miss Catherine Grant, it’s that I wouldn’t bet against you—seems like the kind of odds only a fool’d take.” He’s smiling at you like how he does when Kara isn’t looking—pride, and love, and something like understanding. “I’ve no doubt in my mind that you’ll do amazing things, but if there was ever a time you stumbled—even just a little—to that great future you have waiting? I won’t let you fall far; you always have a place with us.”

God, you’re crying. Not the subtle tears you mother could tolerate, no, these were sobbing heaves as your nose surely runs and your eyes pour. He’s just smiling at you, arms slightly out and you step forward into them—he holds you tightly, resting his chin on your head and shushing you softly. He feels like home, the same way Clark and Kara do—the kind of home that has nothing to do with four walls and a roof.

“She told me to leave,” you sob into his shoulder, this isn’t the kind of breakdown you had with Marion—it isn’t veiled insinuations, or angry sarcasm. Its heartbreak and fear. Your own mother had decided you weren’t worth the effort she’d put into you—you weren’t worth trying for. She loves you—you _know_ that—but she shows it so abstractly, so stagnate. In ways that you’ve forgotten how to decipher as you got older.

“I know, kiddo.” He whispers, kissing the top of your head.

You want to stop crying, want to control yourself, but he just squeezes you and you start sobbing anew. “How could she do that? H-how was it so easy?” The way she’d looked at you—all stone and mortar, solid at the eyes.

“I don’t know.” You hear the words in his chest, and with a complete lack of dignity you rub your tear stained cheek on his shirt before pulling back. Mister Callaghan smiles while reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief with a monogramed _TC_ in the corner. “Some people can’t look past principle, they’re blind to so much of what’s right in front of them. But that isn’t on you—that isn’t your fault.”

You sniff, “but—,”

“No _but_ s, kiddo. Would you blame yourself if someone closed their eyes and walked into traffic?”

You laugh, a wet ugly sound, “that doesn’t make sense.”

“Alright, alright—Jesus, everyone’s a critic these days,” he wipes at your tears and presses the handkerchief into your hand. “So I’m pretty rotten at analogies, I still stand by it—you can’t blame yourself for someone else’s closed eyes. Literally, _or metaphorically_.”

Some nights when you’re at the Mister Callaghan’s house as you watch Clark and Kara flit about with cozy energy you wished for that feeling. Something that made the static cold halls of your mother’s manor bearable. But maybe—maybe this place could be warm, and comfortable and genuine.

Maybe it could be _home_.


	66. snap shot 66. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT (KARA GRANT).**   _Where are **you**? Are you the hands curling, or the lips pulling into a smile? Or are you the thoughts bouncing around the dark places in your mind? Where does the responsibility fall? Are you held accountable for things your body does without your consent? Or are you the victim? You don’t feel like a victim, you just feel shattered and sad, and so very wrong about everything._

* * *

You’re a house fire.

The burn starts somewhere in your chest, a smoldering rush of hot air that runs down your bones and through your lungs. Little embers flickering to life with every inhalation, brightening and heating, until you exhale and the light dims—for only a moment. You live, _it burns_. The red pours through you like molten agitation gnawing and chewing and demanding your attention even when you’re trying to shake the thoughts away. Intrusive little devils that nest in your mind and toss burning coals to the darkest parts of you. The light exposes the rot eating away at the edges of you, where the cracks have widened, and the brittle floor had begun crumbling away.

You’re burning alive, and you can only think of how many people are going to burn with you.

The flames lick at your fingertips and scorch your palms—copper filling your mouth like you’re rolling bullets around your teeth. The red asks nicely at first, tucking into you like it’s meant to fill the holes you’ve gotten so good at ignoring—where planets, and parents, and perfect love stories belong. Gaping fissures that yawn and grin whenever you close your eyes, whenever you have even a _moment_ to consider everything that could have been. A whole person—an unbroken person.

 _I’ll make it better_ , the red says when you’re convulsing on the ground, listening to the jackrabbit beat of your heart as it fill you, setting your blood ablaze, and igniting your bones. You’re burning from the inside out, but there’s only _darkness_ . Pouring out, and out, _and out_ , until you can’t remember why you were fighting to begin with. The dark is cool and soothing, rubbing along your sides and up your spine, coaxing you away from the brightness—and into the far back of your mind. _You don’t have to feel_ , the black promises when you’re getting sleepy—feeling the heaviness in your arms and legs. Like you’re about to slump forward and away.

 _Kara_.

The name snaps through you, chasing away the dark, sneering at the red—gold laps at your heels like the forgiving ebb and flow of the tide. The haze flickers like a bug in a storm, bright—brighter—and then the dark is back, folding around you at every edge and coaxing you to retrace yourself. That there’d been nothing to see to begin with, nothing worth burning for. Exhaling, the flames burn brighter, and the red pulses heavy—but it feel far away, feels like it doesn’t belong to you. Someone else’s red, some _other_ Kara that has things to hide. Not you.

 _Kara_.

Your name is stitched through the thunderstorm threatening to douse the flames—smother the fire. The heat isn’t just red anymore, it’s gold and orange and white at the center. Flickering like the agitated tip of a cat’s tail. Back and forth, back and forth. The red had asked so nicely at first, but now it demands—digging claws into the edges of your heart and tearing free dark pieces that you pretend aren’t you. The horrible thoughts, and the monstrous things you’ve done with hands so easily curled into claws—your fingers thin, but strong, able to tear apart people, and ruin worlds. You look at them through the haze of red in your eyes, through the blurry color and the shivering heat—they look bloody, and crooked, so wrong and snarled into curling fists.

“K—Kara?” The voice is just beside you, warbling slightly—but there’s a strength at the center, something trying to be firm. Snapping around you see Clark—no, _Kal El_ , your little cousin all grown. The boy you would  sacrifice your whole _world_ for—you lived for him, you couldn’t _die_ because of him. He’s broad, and tall, with eyes galaxy-blue and a chin perfectly aligned—he’s _perfect_ , and it digs into you in tender dark places that you couldn’t even remember anymore. But the red flushes them free—pushing them to the center of your mind, to the front of your thoughts. Perfect little Kal-El. He sounds so _worried_.

For you? Or because of you?

“Kal, Kal,” the red drawls, your voice lower when it speaks for you—the letters sliding off your tongue, dragged out and softened at the edges. A flicking hiss, a soothing purr. “Who else would it be, baby cousin?” There’s a _crack_ as another bullet slams into the building beside you, but the red doesn’t flinch—instead flicking your eyes toward the metal monstrosity that was LexCorp most recent machination of destruction. The red pulses, spilling wildly into every part of you—filling your chest and smothering your heart that _pitter patters_ for the wild boy in his suit of steel.

Lighter than air, you drift upward—laughing as another red capped bullet slams into your chest. _Thunk, thunk_. They dig in, you bleed—but the red preens while fingers dig out the offensive munitions. Your breathing rattles for a few moments until the bullets are dropped to the ground far below—your bloody finger-tips snapping in amusement as you lurch forward with a ripple of motion behind you. Looking into the startled blue eyes of a human man who had once been such a lovely boy—twisted and warped as boy tend to be, he glares with white ringed pupils mad with power and desperate for love.

 _Lex_ , you whine, but the word never finds your lips—never escapes. Because the red has curled viciously diligent fingers around the name and left it lodged somewhere in the back of your throat. You know what he sees—this boy you loved so very much, still love desperately—a sinister suit of black metal and harsh fabric. Blackout lenses over eyes glowing crimson with something close to rage, but so different—artificial, but still somehow real. Your hand reaches out to curl gloved black fingers into the harsh metals and electric cables—they snap and spark, and Lex covers his eyes.

 _Stop, Kara_.

The thought jolts through you, and the red hisses snapping back like it had be slapped—your hand hangs limply just before Lex’s face, but it no longer reaches out. To grab him by the throat, you know—even if _you_ didn’t wish to do that. The red doesn’t ask, it demands, and forces. _Kara_. The gold tangles through your fingers, cool and soothing and you’re able to lower your hand to your side, even if you can’t force your body away.

“You’re a monster,” this Luthor boy sneers, pulling his gun up and shoving the barrel toward your chest. The red laughs, and your fingers—even tangled through with gold restraints—curl around the barrel and crush the metal.

“I am,” the red laughs, leaning forward—but the gold keeps it from digging teeth into Lex’s cheek like it wishes to. Like a leash suddenly tethered around the beast’s neck, you can feel it—because it’s your neck too. This color that’s stolen your every sour thought, your every improper moment. “Guess I should stop pretending that I’m anything but, right?” Your lips crack a little when the red curls them into a grin—wide and manic, though you know it’s impossible to see under the fabric of your mask. “Nice talk, Alexander. Your mother would be so _very_ proud.”

The red wants to carve him through—it’s seen what he’s capable of, the path he’s put himself on—and there’s a horrible righteousness to the color. It spills and spoils, but there’s so much of _you_ in it, that for long moments you have difficulty thinking of _why_ you shouldn’t kill this boy you practically raised. This boy who would cry in his sleep, and ask you to play chess—who needed to walk for _hours_ to clear the hate his mother spilled into his ear like poison. All these memories tumble through, but you can’t _focus_ on them—they shiver and shake, and you know what they’re supposed to be. What they _used_ to be.

 _Come home, darling_ . The voice purrs, rubbing along your sides and coaxing even the red back inward—blinking heavily, you feel tired. Burning alive, and ready to sleep. The red rumbles in your chest, and Kal El— _Clark, his name's Clark_ , the voice whispers—stands before you. You’re on the ground, stumbling foot over foot until he’s holding you up by the shoulders, keeping you on your feet. Lex’s metal monster is long gone, the frightened man-boy returning to his daytime lair while the Man of Steel wrangles his monster kin. Gulping down breaths, you can’t seem to breathe—can’t inhale enough oxygen, and he must notice the panic slipping in where the red has receded, because he’s spinning you around.

The gold catches you.

Green eyes and hair made of sunlight. She’s stepping out of a Suburban with blacked out windows and the red _hisses_ , angry and coiled tight in what little dark isn’t touched by the gold. Cat’s in front of you, her small hands curled up into the hood you hastily pulled over your head when you’d flown out to save Clark. You feel her in your mind—where she’s been ever since Alondra was conceived. That little flicker of color that did not belong to you—that allowed you to feel her heart beating in her chest, and the breath in her lungs. She’s breathing for you right now—in and out, in and out—slow and steady. She’s keeping her eyes locked with yours—even if she can’t see them, she _knows_ where they are.

“There you are,” she murmurs, making a soothing sound when the red bucks—she doesn’t understand what it is, what exactly is happening. But she must feel the burn against her fingertips, at the edges of her mind, because she flinches for a moment—and then frowns. “Well, seems you’ve found yourself an unwanted passenger, supergirl.” The red and gold twist and fight, but the black consumes—you feel the prick of a needle in your arm, and feel the heavy sedative infecting your blood. Ripping the green tipped needle out, you throw it to the ground.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Cat coaxes, her presence in your mind the only thing keeping the red from pouring free—gated and tamed as it is for the moment. It rages over its captivity, over its smothered pain. “We just need to get you somewhere safe.” _You’re_ getting angry, and the red purrs—delighted as it amplified the burning rage. You don’t like being _corralled_ , you don’t like being put down like a _pet_.

“You say safe like it really means something,” the red says—or maybe it is you. “You know it doesn’t.” Her brows tuck, and you know it’s because she’s used to hopeful speeches—but you can’t find the parts of you that hope anymore. You’re angry, and your mouth tastes sour, but the black is winning, and only small cool hands keep you upright, until there’s absolutely nothing.

“It does, Kara,” no gold, no red—just black. “It does.”

* * *

The red is tittering when you wake. Rushing up and down your spine like a chill, curling and nesting in your chest just beside your hummingbird heart. Everything warbles and the sounds drown and dip like you’ve been submerged under water—everything seems slightly _off_ , in some way you can’t put your finger on. _They’ve caged you_ , the red sings gleefully in the dark little patches of your alien heart. So very happy that your limbs respond sluggishly, everything shaking and staying just slightly out of focus. Stumbling from a cot that had never been in this cell before, you press both hands to your temples, trying to find stability, trying to stop the _ringing_.

“Kara,” lifting eyes to find Cat standing just on the other side of the glass. She’s beautiful and so put together—hair perfectly settled, hands folded across her chest. Despite all of that, you know she hadn’t slept in a long while—it’s in the squint of her eyes, and the way her heel taps against the floor tiles. _Tap, tap, tap_ . The red rushes up and lodges itself in your throat, smothering whatever you would have said in response. Swallowing the _what’s happening_ , and _help me_ —instead you feel how your lips curl and slant. Like little strings were attached to the corners and the red inside your head had made you their puppet. You lumber gracelessly at first, the way the red makes you move is without consideration, without restraints—all the things you did to seem smaller, to seem weaker, are gone.

The acrylic glass hums with an electric current, but you don’t mind it when you press palms against the charge—like a bug zapper reminding you of something you shouldn’t do. It’s harder to separate the red from you anymore. It’s spread and consumed so much of your dormant thoughts—the things you dreamed of when they smothered you in black. Cat’s watching you with the green glass of sunken ships, chipped and beautiful and you find yourself wishing you could dive into her depths—the places inside her that have no lewd connotations, no lascivious reasons. The dark little corners of her that match yours—the places the red feasts and gorges itself. All the negativity you swallow down, and down, and down, until it had no hope to do anything but rot you from the inside out.

“All-nighters don’t agree with you as much as they used to, Cat.” The way her name clicks off your tongue is foreign—sharper somehow, like a blade thrown. She flinches and almost takes a step back before she makes some determination and moves closer if anything.

“Excuse me if I hadn’t planned on babysitting anyone _other_ than our children,” she’s going for off-handed, but you see the confusion tucked away in her pirate ship eyes. Little treasures to be found. The red basks in that confusion, in that little kernel of hurt that nips at her like it does you.

“How _are_ the kids?” The red coos, slinking a few steps away, your bare feet finding that alien grace you smothered so easily now—that little float in your step that says that the ground is only a means to an unnecessary end. “Did you bring Ally to see mommy? Or are government facilities where you put your foot down?” Step, step—turn. You catch the slightest glimpse of her features pursing, before they settle and she leans forward.

The buzz of kryptonite in your ears is faint, a prickle of annoyance—making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge. But it isn’t _strong_ . Not enough for you to not crash through the pseudo glass separating you from your wife. You can practically _smell_ her—you could hold her if only you got rid of this _glass_. Something about you must bristle and tense, because Cat’s eyes go wide slightly and you feel her at the center of your mind. In the brightest places where picnics were had and anniversaries remembered. The gold is spilling through your mind, and you’re holding onto it with both hands.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen to your knees until Cat’s crouching to keep her eyes locked with yours—she’s beautiful. Stolen sunlight stashed away inside her—behind her eyes, and under her skin. The red howls loudly, thrashing viciously like a beast caught in a trap. It’s been wrapped in gold, but the urges pluck at your fingers and press behind your eyes. You’re screaming at the feeling of being pulled in two—everything wishing to stay still, but leave at the same time. There’s a pressure building in your cheekbones, and along the bridge of your nose.

“Alex!” You hear Cat shouting, hear how she bangs on the glass—you can feel the vibrations, _taste_ her on your tongue, but you know it’s all in your mind. She’s there, faintly at the edges of you, holding on tightly enough that even when you lose grip of yourself you don’t float away into the black inside. The red is _pouring_ over you, making it hard to breathe—your lungs burn, and your blood boils. The white floor is a tilted and speckled thing—but soon it _too_ is red. From the blood pouring out of your nose, from the scratches along the back of your hands. Your throat hurts, and you realize it’s because you’re screaming.

“There’s nothing we can do, Cat,” Alex voice is quiet, you can only _just_ make it out beneath the pounding in your ears. “We’re testing the compound, we have to try to figure out what exactly it is.” The red is chittering and stretching, like a languid cat inside your bones—threatening to press them outward and away. You suddenly feel leagues too large for your skin, enormous and uncompromising. “Talk to her,” she’s saying, and you can _feel_ their eyes, even from where you’re writhing on the floor. Smearing yourself in the blood leaking from your nose, ears, and the corner of your eyes.

 _Tap, tap_ , footsteps walking away. And you wonder if you’re alone, but you hear the sniffle of someone close. Blinking blood leaking eyes open to see Cat pressed against the glass, knees on the ground, her eyes bright with tears. “Hey supergirl,” she’s almost whispering, but somehow you hear her even beneath the howling red in your veins. “I love you. I always have, and I always will.” Clawing at the ground, it cracks under your almost indestructible fingers as you drag your unwilling body toward the glass.

The red is digging horribly into you, pulling little shreds away from your mind, tearing the edges until they tatter and ruin. You don’t _feel_ like yourself, you’re burning from the inside—fire in your bones turning everything good and decent in your to smoldering ash. The only thing keeping you in even some moderate piece is Cat’s golden tendrils refusing to retract. Pressing your back against the clear barrier, you can _feel_ her through it. The electric pulse keeps you focused, keeps you awake—everything wants to turn to black, because you know the red will take you then. Will consume whatever little moments of control you still have.

“I love you,” you say, and it _is_ you. Your tongue feels heavy and ill-fitted for your mouth; you’re _tired_ , and that moment of hesitation is all the red needs to slip up your throat and out your mouth. “You take me for granted,” the red hums with consideration, you feel how Cat stiffens against the glass—you’re rolling your shoulders loosely, letting them shrug up and away. Your chin dips until it rests against your collarbones. “It’s okay, it’s only human to lash out at the one you know won’t leave. That’s why it was always me.” Your lips crack when they curl upwards into a grin—wide and marionetted form some dark little corner of your heart.

“You knew I’d take whatever part of you that you’d give me.” The words sound like things you’ve thought in those years between Cat’s realization and when you’d gotten out of the Phantom Zone. When you were left alone with your fears and your troubles. When it had seemed _impossible_ to feel whole again—to smile, and laugh, but you have some little chip at the edge of your grin made of teeth and venom. Poisoning yourself with each ounce of happiness that seemed tethered to some unspoken condition. Some promise that couldn’t be mentioned.

Thumping your head back against the glass, the red laughs.

“Did it make you feel powerful? To know you had the strongest being on the planet wrapped around your little human finger?” The red wants you to, it’s goading Cat for a response, and you want to stop it—want to tear it asunder from inside, but you’re _tired_ . And sad. You hear Cat shifting, and then the smack of her hand hitting the glass. Again. Again. Her hand must hurt, but she does it one more time before something like a sob escapes her chest—the red titters, but you _ache_. The gold dims, pulling back from the edges of your mind, before they surge forward and tangle through the red, keeping it away from your mouth, keeping it from the burning in your lungs. You can breathe finally, the cool air filling you.

“The furthest thing from powerful, Kara—the _furthest_ . I felt small in comparison—tiny and insignificant.” _Thump_ , her hand hits the glass one last time, and it’s like you can _feel_ her fingers holding onto you. The connection growing, strengthening. “I was scared, and stupid, and the distance gave me control. I hated it, but I needed it back then.” You want to tell her you’re over it—that the wound doesn’t hurt anymore, and while that’s true there’s moments when you _wonder_. When you think about what could have happened if everything hadn’t broken for a little while.

“Not having you—not completely—made it possible to…go.” You whisper, your bloody tongue rolling around your teeth, the copper taste making you _sick_ . You can’t say where you went, not in actual words—they feel foreign and cold. But the red howls the name— _phantom zone, phantom zone_ —like a sinister little war chant. “I would have been selfish, I wouldn’t have wanted to let go.”

Everything is going black, spotting at the edges, the red dragging itself belly down across your psyche, glowing and hot and sinister. You can’t hear Cat anymore, but you know she’s talking—you hear _maybe if we_ , and _could’ve been_ —but everything’s dipping away under the dark waves. Cat’s voice is like a lullaby soothing the worst of the burns. “I wasn’t sure if I could make it in your extraordinary world,” she’s saying, and you can only breathe deeply through your nose. Trying to see through eyes you know are open. “But I do love you, so much.”

Breathe— _in, out_ —breathe. “Until the stars go dark.”

* * *

You wake retching up blood.

Your stomach has spoiled, and your inside rend and tear, but you wake up _you_ and that’s more than can be said for most of the other waking moments. There’s smears on the wall you don’t remember making—hands gouging out the edges of tiles, crumbling them to red paste. There’s bloody handprints on the glass, and even one of your face. You don’t remember _any_ of it, which makes you think the red has hijacked your unconsciousness. You dreamed of crumbling worlds—the dust stuck in your eyes, the air in your lungs. Rao burned you as if you had no right to the red dwarf’s heat any longer—cooler and closer than Sol’s yellow sun.

You feel the burn of your eyes behind your eyelids—knowing that they’re glowing red, your vision barely kept in check by willpower alone. You’re drowning in blood, but there’s an awareness you can’t shake. Looking up with bright red eyes to find Maxwell Lorde looking down at you—his hands pressing against the glass like he’s barely holding his body up. He’s slicked back and put together, but there’s something in the way he’s standing that sets you on edge. How much time has passed? Where’s Cat? He’s watching you with a kaleidoscope of emotion and you can only think of what you took on for him. For Marion.

The weight of a death that didn’t belong to you.

The red awakens, shaking itself free until it bristles and expands. Pulsing through you, smoothing your thoughts like a moving river would stone after eons. “How can you keep her here?” He’s not talking to you, which is another strike against him. Another slight he didn’t know belonged in his name. Staggering upward, your limbs feel loose and improperly proportioned, but they are _yours_ . Clumsily yours. “They have her son—how can you keep her here.” And as if your very atoms have shattered you feel whole— _complete_ —the red pouring into you and filling all those places it had only slicked over before.

You hadn’t realized how _weak_ you’d gotten from fighting the impulses—how the red was rending you apart from the inside out, until you’d have no choice but to do as it wished. To close your eyes and fall to the worst parts of you amplified by heat and anger. But you don’t submit, this isn’t a _conquest_ , you accept the flush of scorching fire into the pit of your stomach, and you burn with it because it makes you feel invincible.

You’re _powerful_ suddenly, thick and strong, and able to ruin worlds if you wished. Somehow you knew they weren’t speaking of Kal El, no—it was a shiver in your bones. A shiver that prompted curled fingers to slam quickly into the acrylic glass. Over, and over, and _over_. The electricity shocked the edges of your knuckles but it was nothing—the digging edges of glass cutting skin that immediately healed. And soon, it shattered. Pouring out and away so that you could step through—only half-dressed—so much of your suit ruined from agents trying to cut holes to reach your vital points.

Max steps back blue eyes wide, and he looks like he might wonder what the red wishes to do to him—and it wishes _so much_ . But the curled smile only flits to life for a moment before hardening— _your son_.

Carter.

“We’ll chat when I have more time, Max,” you rumble, slicking blood off your finger tips and from beneath your nose. He’s taller than you, but you steps closer as if looming—running red stained palms over the white of his shirt, leaving them equally bloody. “I’m tired of keeping Marion’s secret for her. I don’t think she’ll mind, do you?” Decades later it seems hardly a noticeable weight anymore—the truth of what had happened in that lab. Of the ring so similar to the red pulsing through you right now. That ignited your temper and let your hate swell. Walking backwards and keeping your eyes on him, you hear the thrum of Government Issue boots storming down the hall.

Every muscle in your body coils tightly, and the air ripples around your heels—throwing all of your weight forward you slam down the hall, through the agents, and only catch a _glimpse_ of gold around the corner. You don’t slow, don’t allow her to snare you in her soothing grasp—the red revels and you feel full and whole. You suddenly feel like the universe makes _sense_ , you suddenly feel like you can begin fixing _something_.

* * *

Men crack like tops against the edges of your anger.

They talk loudly and breathe through their mouths. They’re the kind of men that don’t think about being quiet because they’re the worst thing in the room. The kind of men with dishonorable discharges and skeletons in their closest. The kind of men who don’t expect the silent way the lock is broken with an insistent hand—the way sound bleeds away and is swallowed by the little toggle flicked at her waist. Making the air dense, making sound waves difficult to travel—everything goes low, goes muffled—you can hear everything perfectly, even if the humans inside the room can’t.

“Kill the kid,” one’s trying to shout to the man closest to him. “We still have the bitch. Fucker wasn’t even supposed to be here, the boss won’t mind.” They’re cuffing each other on the shoulders to get attention since they can’t _hear_ anything. _Snap_ . With a twist of the wrist the entire innards of the lock pulls inside the actual door and you can push it open hard. _Slam_. It bounces off the wall, even if the baker’s dozen in the room can’t hear it.

A man has a matte black SIG Saucer P226 in his hand, dramatically pulling the slide back even though it wasn’t necessary. You’d learned everything you knew about guns from a man who hated them with a passion—Bruce Wayne—but you didn’t need to know that it was most likely chambering 9x19mm Parabellum, or that he had a 20 bullet extended magazine. No, all you could see was how Carter’s face had twisted into abject _terror_ . He was crying, his face bruised slightly—wearing a nice pressed white shirt and slacks—you know that Cat had fought with him the entire way through the mall about buying something off the rack, but he’d been insistent. He was seventeen, he didn’t need something by Armani, especially if it was a personal favor called in by his _mom_.

You think of that.

The red thinks of how easily you could dismember everyone in the room.

The fear on Carter’s face amplified everything you felt—it boiled everything down and away from thoughts, and into actions. Blinking across the room you grab the man’s hand holding the gun— _break it_ , the red suggests, no longer driving your body but coaxing you along. The seamless transition from force to coercion went unnoticed, went unseen. Tightening your grip and swinging him around until he had to look you in what must be brightly glowing eyes—the black sunglasses over his own eyes reflecting your back toward you. Grinning, you don’t have to try _at all_ to pop his shoulder joint and break the socket that the arm may have been returned to eventually.

You free the pistol from his grip and unload the majority of the 20 bullet magazine in seconds—it jams about seven in, unable to keep up with how quickly you can pull the trigger, but he’s dead. You hear every shot the _pop-hiss_ of a spent cartridge, but the heavy air still refuses to allow human ears to appreciate the wet slop of a human body tumbling onto its side. Toggling the switch at your waist again, the sound rushes back into the room—it assaults every human ear and they flinch, unconsciously lifting hands to cuff their own ears for _just_ a moment.

“Am I interrupting something?” You murmur lowly, pressing through the space between you and standing at another soldier’s elbow before he can think to lower his hand. “You all seem pretty busy. Should I come back?” Hand at his wrist, you pull the arm out and snap the arm at the elbow—it pops wetly and he screams, a hoarse sound as he tries to struggle from your grasp. He’d have better luck getting out from beneath a hydraulic press. They aren’t thinking about leverage anymore, they aren’t thinking about their contract or their payout. They’re afraid and angry, and trying to survive has suddenly become so _very_ important.

“Carter,” Lois is saying, her voice slightly off but what must be a broken nose, “Close your eyes, kiddo. You shouldn’t watch this.” Chair legs scratching as she must try to get closer to Carter.

Bullets slam into your chest and you buckle like you might consider going down before smiling wide for them—showing the captured bullets in your palm. Tipping them over your fingertips until they fell in a waterfall of munitions toward the ground. Twisting the man in your hold you pull him onto your knee and easily break his neck. As he slumps you work through four more—making it hard and fast. Shattered cheek, ruptured spleen, punctured lung and shattered pelvic bone. The blood on you isn’t all yours anymore—and it’s _strange_ to think that it’s such a similar color. _Red_ like the chittering demon in your ear telling you to turn around and tear another man limb from limb.

 _They threatened what’s yours_ , it goads, but you’ve succumbed so readily to its hot influence. The scorching touch of fingers along your brow and down the back of your neck. You’re burning alive, but you can’t even find it in yourself to mind the flames. _This isn’t you_ , something says from far away—the slightly wisps of gold trying to find purchase in the crimson soaked landscape that is your mind.

“So,” you continue, as if you were just picking up a conversation that had momentarily lapsed. “This probably doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore, does it?” There’s only three men left alive, they’ve finally gotten it in their minds that shooting _you_ isn’t very effective, but the two humans strapped to the chairs. And you can’t have that. Even as this blood soaked creature that is your worst self you won’t allow anything to happen to Carter—Lois either, though the thought struggles for a moment in the dark. There’s brutally ruined bodies everywhere, so the red’s satisfied to simply take the closest pistol—Smith and Wesson 1911, .45 ACP, 8-round magazine—and leave one bullet in the center of each their foreheads.

“Carter, Cart—hey, hey,” Lois is saying, and her voice is getting a little frantic. High pitched in a completely unflattering way. Turning around the red rumbles inside you a snarl of intentions, a kinetic mess of energy that spills like a caustic chemical promising to consume you completely. Lois is in front of Carter, her hands bracketing his face—the picked handcuff hanging from one wrist. You always felt like Lois knew her away around a lock-pick. But Carter’s not looking at Lois, he’s looking at you—blue eyes wide and wet, face spattered in blood that didn’t belong to him. The red shivers and sneers, but it preens a little at how Lois scampers back a few steps, but he doesn’t flinch when you shatter the chain between his cuffs.

“You’re fine,” you say, the harsh scrape of words twisting difficulty off your tongue. With every angry horrible part inside you awake and alert, you still have nothing but love in your heart for this darling boy. It’s the strangest balm to the energy inside you. To the spilling red and the burning dark. “Everything’s going to be fine—everything finally makes sense, _aonah_. So don’t you worry. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize it.” He’s blinking rapidly, wiping at the tears falling down his cheeks with his wrist which only serves to smear the blood.

“Realize what?” He asks while sucking in deep breaths. Smoothing your printless thumbs across his cheeks to capture the moisture, he has fingers curled into the black on your torn and ruined suit. He’s still so _small_ , even though he’s your height easily—it’s in the way he’s trying to pull you closer, how you somehow comfort him despite everything you’d just done. It calms the burn, soothes the red, but you can’t take it back, can’t ignore the thoughts whirling through your mind.

“I can fix everything, baby boy. Everything. I knew a man—probably more a boy—but he was from another Earth, another _dimension_ . There’s another me out there, working as some kind of writer.” You’re cracking, you can feel it like the manic shiver before a breakdown—the red doesn’t care about repercussions, it has been fed in chaos, satiated in destruction, and now you’re rolling full steam ahead. It doesn’t care-- It doesn’t care— _you_ don’t care.

“So?” Lois asks from where she’s standing behind you, shoulders tight, the blood on her clothes smears from where she tried to wipe it away.

“So,” you bite out, turning eyes that you know start glowing toward her, teeth presented in something that could be mistaken for a smile if one was to squint hard. “I can find Krypton—there has to be a dimension out there. One where they _cared_ about saving themselves.” Anger roils harder in your stomach, bristling and churning until you can only breathe harshly through your nose. A universe where your mother hadn’t lied, where she’d actually done what she promised—where your home still existed, and not just the scattered rocks from its destruction.

“I’m going to find it, and I’m going to bring us home.” The future is fussy, wavering in and out, and you can’t really _focus_ on what you’re saying, especially not on the implications of what you want to accomplish. You just know you can have your family—Cat, your kids—and you can connect them to what they’ll never understand. To a place that might as well be fantasy because it’s abstract and dead. Smoothing your palms up his cheeks, you hold him in place, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Do you trust me?” You ask him, close enough that you see the faint glow of your eyes in his baby blues.

“Yeah,” he answers without hesitation, sniffling and collapsing into your arms.

 _Good_ , the red thinks, and you agree.

Time to see a Luthor about his temporal-displacement technology.

* * *

 

It hadn’t been too hard to keep Kal El down—he fought like a human, like he didn’t know how to use his body properly. It was one thing to seem godly to the inhabitants of this third rock from the sun, but you knew the different. You knew how he still over compensated for things that didn’t matter, how he flinched and dodged, when he could rightfully push through obstacles. You’d left him in a crater in the center of Metropolis, his bones creaking and the scent of weakness lingering on him like a stagnation. He’d tried to get up, tried to turn you away from your goals, but it hadn’t been effective. A knee to the chin had put him down again, and the red thrilled at the feeling of power.

Far below the city the accelerator _whirrs_ to life picking through the particles in the air, charging them with energy and making them spit it back and forth until the very _ground_ sizzled with it. Cars lurched into the air, their connection to gravity momentarily removed. You feel it ringing down your arms and across your bones—digging into you until it can spill up and out into the metal contraption tethered to your chest. You’re above the crack, so close anyone else would vaporize out of existence—you feel smaller fissures opening far away. Hear the crackle in the air of little breaks spilling through.

You understand the theory behind it—had finished the prototype in LexCorp’s lab while security had tried ending your life with measly little bullets. The Luthor boy had gone home to lick his wounds, and it would take him precious time to get back to his lab of madness and hate. You can only taste how close Krypton is on your tongue—what’s a few hundred lives in comparison to a few billion? You could find a world where the crystal forest still existed, and the crimson oceans gleamed.

You thought about how you would strangle the life out of the council, the men and women who had pulled all travelers back from their ventures of the black so that a whole race would perish together. It was _arrogance_ , something you hadn’t realized until you’d been a little older—until you’d gone through the data charts in your ship when you’d returned from the Phantom Zone. Astra had confirmed it, had spit in the council’s name while stashed away in the bowels of a prison ship. You’d fumed silently, smothering quietly in your anger—something that your aunt had difficulty associating with the little girl who was her Little One.

 _Crack_. “I’m sorry.”

You turn too late, the red _howls_.

_Pop-hiss._

The energy hits you in the stomach, throwing you back steps until you feel the power leeching away from your fingertips—you feel how it bleeds away. Feel the ache of what should be invulnerable skin—feel the fizzle of energy in your stomach. But more than that, _worse_ than that—was the hollow despair inside. The red vaporized in a moment leaving behind just clambering horror. _Kara_ , you can feel Cat’s mind reaching for you—can feel the block you’d put up between you and Alondra who had been with Kassidy and Winn the last week. You feel their love pour into you, gold and warm and grounding—but you’re sour and undeserving of that love.

 _Ieue_ , your daughter presses into your heart from across the country, from where she’s safe in National City. You’d thrown up the barrier in your mind when you felt the false anger bleeding through you with that first bullet—even corrupted you hadn’t been able to _think_ of letting Alondra feel the burning anger and hate finding refuge in your stomach. You’d taken your connection to your wife and daughter for granted the last two years—the ability to feel their hearts in your chest as if they were your own, the breath in their lungs and the love in every ounce of them.

But now it feels like a consuming horror to feel that love in the wake of such _horrible_ thoughts. Of all the ways you’d contemplated taking humans apart. J’onn is watching you with knowing eyes—and you understand that while he can’t read you mind, he _feels_ the press of your thoughts. The disgust and sickness; the horror and self-hate. You _knew_ you hadn’t come back completely right from the Phantom Zone, it wasn’t the best kept secret—but you felt like you’d been able to corral it to the darkest parts of you that you didn’t pay much mind.

At least until the red broke it free.

“Kara,” J’onn is saying over the _whirr_ of the machine below. “Let’s get you home.” He’s so kind. This broken Martian man, but you don’t deserve it. Not when your actions are actively killing people—you can hear how bodies fizzle and die. How hearts stop. To shut the accelerator down in stages would send out a wave of all the energy that hadn’t been able to be used. The whole city would burn. No, it had to be used properly—had to be channeled right. Pressing a hand to the device on your chest.

“You know that isn’t happening,” you say, looking down but thinking about Alondra. You can feel how she’s happy and content, how she’s playing outside. You can feel the sun on her face and Winn’s hand in her’s. Phantom touches to your own limbs. _I love you, Ally_ , you think pressing the thought out and to your daughter, making sure she can grasp it with even her rudimentary understanding of the mental bond. _Love you too, ieue_ , she gleefully returns—but you can feel how she says it out loud as well. How Winn freezes, and Kassidy sucks in a breath—they know what’s happening.

 _Don’t you dare_ , comes the hiss from Cat—you feel her clenched fist, the tightness in her shoulder and the pull at her lower back from sitting on the floor with you all night. She’s _furious_ , and it feels so pale in comparison to the anger that had been filling you—the hate and superiority. Your stomach is twisting in knots because you’re going to do it again—you’re going to leave her behind. She must feel your fear because the gold is flooding in at the edges of your mind—warmth filling your chest, making you feel less empty. Less broken.

“I have to,” you say out loud, though the thought is pressed across the city to Cat. You wished your confidence came from something more than a desperate need to find home—not Krypton, no. It wasn’t anything structural—no, it was the feeling breaking down whatever hope you had of doing this without sobbing hysterically. _Strong_ seems so relative now, so useless and unimportant. You’re trying to blink away the tears, trying to firm your spine that shakes and trembles under the pressure—of all the forces acting on your body.

The _I love you_ on your mind is like a farewell, you’re thinking it over and over until it’s all you have—all you can be, until you shut the mental bond down from your side. Slide barriers into place so that you can’t reach out to them in your final moments. _You’re coming home_ , is Cat’s promise just before the blocks are in place, and you can’t help sobbing, can’t help the immediate _please_ you think, even though you know she never got it. Watching how J’onn walks tentatively across the top of LexCorp, how his hands are half raised like he imagines there might be a fight. There’s no fight left in your, no anger or burn left in the cold that is your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you say haltingly, “I’m—I’m—maybe the universe is trying to tell me something. Maybe I’m just not supposed to be…happy. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to leave Krypton.” It’s that dark thought that the red brought back to life that you hadn’t been able to forget in the dark of the Phantom Zone. Your face feels numb, and you know it must translate well because he’s suddenly trying to rush forward—trying to stop you.

But you can’t allow that.

Twisting the device on your chest and stepping back at the same time. The wind howls, the air rushes past—but it’s the static clinging to your arms pulling you down that pulls the scream from your throat. The _tha-thump_ of your heart giving a final beat—before everything snaps.

And there’s only dark.


	67. snap shot 67. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [canon/38]

**SNAP SHOT (CARTER GRANT)**. You want her to know she doesn't have to frame it like an adventure, doesn't have to sell you on the idea of spending more time with her. You want her to know you'd go anyway, that you'd pick her. You don't want to know if there's a world out there where you wouldn't, where you'd need reasons. She's your mom, you love her, and you'd do anything if it makes her happy.

* * *

Sitting under the awning beside the _best_ lookout spot, your mother had waved you ahead, clearly more interested in staying in the shade than going out and looking at, “a giant hole in the ground”, as she put it. You’d made the suggestion sometime after Italy, but before Prague, and she’d considered it for longer than usual before smiling and combing fingers through your hair and agreeing. Flying commercial had been a consolation she had sighed all the way through—the jet not air ready yet, and unwilling to spend _that_ much money having another ride expedited.

“Enjoy being a peasant for a day, darling,” she’d said with too much put upon dread.

You’d giggled and knocked shoulders with her quickly, seeing the smile she smothered to remain properly untouched. “It’s still first class, mom.”

“Yes, yes,” she’d rolled off arrogantly, playing her role with delight, “But it’s,” a dramatic shiver, “ _public_ first class. I can practically feel the mouth breather who sat here before us.”

The hotel was clambering to receive you both, and she’d kept a straight spine and a blasé indifference until the hotel room door shut and the heels came off. She’d gone on about how she’d gotten a personal tour from some ranger who had personal experience, and how he was _one with the land_. You could practically hear the air quotes as she talked down the hall from where she was searching for something comfortable and cotton to wear.

 _Not_ cotton blend.

The sky burns blue like how you imagine it does in places untouched by humanity—bright, and clear, and somehow cold even in the over one-hundred degree weather. It was the _shade_ you decide quickly enough; not dark, not pastel. Crisp and crackless, with only the farthest touches of white eons away near the horizon—you can only make them out if you squint. There’s people taking pictures everywhere, the _click-whirr_ of more sophisticated cameras, and the _flash-pop_ of iPhones and Androids.

You don’t have a camera, not even your phone, because you want this to be something you _try_ to remember. Something that paints on the backs of your eyelids when you think about it. That’s how the most important things are supposed to be remembered—viscerally, intimately. At least, that what your mother says. There were only the barest number of photographs stashed away in the more personal parts of your home—candid pictures from birthday parties, and holidays, and one statement piece of you crying hysterically on a mascot’s lap.

“For when you’re older and you want to know why I have no picture of you with characters,” she’d said seriously, pointing to your four year old hysterically crying face. You’d scowled and demanded why she’d _pay_ for such a picture, but she had just looked smug. Smug, and happy. You think your mother’s at her most beautiful when she’s happy, but that’s probably just how everyone feels about their mother.

There’s people _everywhere_ and it takes you longer than you’d expected to work up the courage to step through the little spaces between bodies—every time you look back toward the awning getting further and further away, your mother would _happen_ to glance up from her mobile phone and smile at you. You _know_ she’s keeping an eye on you, and know there’s probably casually dressed security everywhere.

When you get to the banister, it’s chipped and rusting away under your hold—a shade of orange, or a faded red, you can’t even decide. But just beyond that was sprawling canyon for _miles_. Craggy and towering in some places, until they gentle lay down and tip toward the ground in others. Like giants getting ready for bed, like goliaths reaching toward the horizon. The stripes in the rock date even layer, digging back toward the beginning of time until it’s all just _there_ to be seen by the human eye.

Your mother had an ambivalence toward natural wonders, a very _shrug_ mentality when it came to things that had come to be over thousands, and _millions_ , of years. She’d told you about her trip here when she was twenty—spring break from college, trying to avoid her mother, she’d gone with a handful of friends and drove across the country to see the Grand Canyon.

“It’s all just inevitable,” she’d recounted while looking through glasses with too old a prescription if her squinting was anything to go by. The set perched on her head were probably newer. “This happened, and this happened, and millions of years later—tada, we have a hole in the ground.” Accompanied by the proper wrist roll of indifference, but she’d smiled. “But if you want to see that hole in the ground, we definitely will.”

Nothing about this feels _inevitable_. It feels large, and impossible, and so much more than that. You feel exposed, and unsure, and the red-orange rocks burn at the backs of your eyelids because you realize you haven’t blinked in so long, and the desert heat is drying your eyes out. Your hearts jumping, and throwing itself against the inside of your chest, but you feel _in awe_. The real definition of it, not what it’s become years and centuries later.

“Did you know aliens made the Great Canyon?”

The voice is low and rusty, like they don’t talk often, or haven’t recently, and when you turn to your side there’s someone leaning their forearms against the railing beside you. A comically large mustard yellow tee-shirt with the state of Arizona filled with ridiculous, and campy, tourist pictures. _Grand Canyon_ written above in large predominant letters, and _Arizona_ below. She’s tan, but the hat pulled low to the sunglasses over her eyes makes it hard to make out her face—the same with her blonde, _blonde_ hair. She’s tall, and thin, but there’s a _presence_ about her—it's something your mother would have commented on.

“Grand Canyon,” you correct automatically, and you can see how her lips pull into a smile. “Like Supergirl?”

She shrugs, still not looking away. She’s looking at the Canyon like your mother says you’re supposed to—like she’s trying to imprint it on the backs of her eyelids, in places in her heart that can’t be filled with iPhone panoramas and snap chat stories.

“I guess.” She says with a sigh, before clearing her throat and looking down—you think at the river far below, until you realize she’s looking at her own hands. They’re shaking, and clenched tightly—there’s something in your chest that _aches_ , but it’s abstract and easily forgotten when her shoulders lift and she starts talking again. “My son told me that the first time I took him here,” she stops, thinking, “the only time, I guess.”

She isn’t _sad_ , but it’s like she’s trying to remember if the Canyon is the same as whenever that time was—like she’s comparing the craggy tops to her memory, and finding things missing. Her hands have uncurled slightly, and you realize she’s slightly further away that you thought—the conversation felt intimate, but she’s almost two feet away, and despite the clear gap, no one is trying to fit themselves into it to see what’s beyond. Turning slightly to look back toward the awning your mother is furiously typing on her phone, but stops—as she always does—and looks up at you with a wide smile. You wave a little, and turn back.

“Your mom not a fan of holes in the ground?”

You shrug, rocking against the banister, “not really.”

“Bet she calls them _inevitable_ ,” she grins, you don’t even have to see her face to know she’s grinning.

Narrowing your eyes, you watch her in your periphery, but she’s only leaning into the banister like it’s the only thing keeping her up. “How’d you know?”

A predator bird glides overhead, screeching to the horizon, “My wife says the same thing, but she’s just pretending. She doesn’t like how small it makes her feel. Doesn’t like realizing how big the world really is with its _inevitabilities_.” It makes sense in a way, not liking how _small_ you feel beside something that took millions of years to make—that’s _still_ being made. You wonder if your mother feels the same way—it’s hard to imagine, as she’s always been the largest person in your life, no matter where she is. Not size—obviously—but in presence, in gravitas.

In all the intangible things people are measured.

“How’d the aliens make it?” You ask, because _inevitability_ seems too deep a topic to be talking to a stranger about.

“Laser beams from their eyes,” is the immediate response, followed by a noise that’s probably supposed to be said laser beams. It’s all wrong, you’ve heard how Supergirl’s sounds—more a warbled sound, than a cartoonish _zzt_. “From space it looks like a big butt.” She ends with smugness, like she’s proud of herself for something.

“A butt?” You can’t help being incredulous, you’re half a step from laughing when she turns toward you.

“A _big_ butt.” She says with all seriousness. She has a narrow chin and high cheekbones, her brows are thin-ish and half hidden by the large sunglasses perched on her very straight, very Roman nose. They’re all characteristics that you hear your mother throw around when she’s sick and watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race, or America’s Next Top Model at a unfortunately high volume.

If you have to hear about Tiffany and how everyone was rooting for her _one more time_ —

She’s familiar in so many ways, but you can’t _exactly_ put your finger on it—maybe it’s lips, they’re almost as distinct as eyes, but in the end you shrug and look back out toward the Canyon.

“Doesn’t look like a butt.”

Laughing louder than you’re expecting, you jerk back a little and watch how she lifts the sunglasses slightly to rub her wrist over her eyes. Her cheeks are wet, her eyes look like they _could_ be blue, but she’s letting the dark lenses fall back into place and shaking her head. “Well,” she says finally, “that’s ‘cause you’re not in space.” You feel like she’s following a script—it’s in the way she’s talking, in the way she’s pushing back from the banister and turning to rest her lower back against it. The sun’s behind her, and it’s even harder to look at her now, but you still try—still attempt to pin down that illusive familiarity.

She’s looking back toward the shadowed section of the lookout, where your mother and a dozen other sun-disinclined people loiter. There’s the same intensity to her posture, same manner of imprinting something to the backs of her eyelids. Your mother looks up after a moment and smiles at you before her eyes flick to your side and focus on your companion—she frowns slightly, head tipping, but it isn’t until she goes to stand up that your banister buddy pushes away and shoves hands into her pockets.

“Enjoy the Canyon, buddy,” she says with a forced cheer, a lightness that seem fickle and breaking by the syllable. “You should make your mom come see—she’ll love it, I promise.” She shuffles, kicking up a small cloud of dust, because pivoting and walking away—slipping easily between people, sliding between them like she knew they’d be there the whole time. You lose her after only a few people and would _swear_ you hear your name flicking through the full roar of casual conversations around you. You try to find her on your walk back to the awning—in the large lot, or the stands near-by, but she’s nowhere to be found. Your mother meets you half-way, mobile tucked away, arms loosely crossed over her stomach—she’s wearing what is _casual_ for her, slacks and a light colored blouse.

“Come’n,” you encourage, pulling her by the arm until she concedes and lets you loop yours through hers. She’s grumbling under her breath about how she’s not interested in holes in the ground, but there’s no _real_ resistance. When you reach the bannister, she disentangles herself and even lifts her sunglasses to perch on the top of her head—she looks out with green, green eyes and you sigh for not the first time that you hadn’t inherited that particular recessive gene.

Green eyes are so _cool_.

“Did you know aliens made the Great Canyon?” You say with what you know is a growing grin.

Her brows furrow like she doesn’t quite understand, but relents with her own smile. “Grand Canyon,”

* * *

 

Your banister buddy was right—she loves it.


	68. snap shot 68. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT 68 (NONE)**.  "They say you die twice, once when the breath leaves you, and again when the last person you know says your name"

* * *

_“Hey, it’s Kara—but you already know that. I mean, you’re calling me—right? Anyway! Leave a message and I’ll call you back. I promise! Have a good day!”_

**Beep**.

* * *

**April 02 nd, 2008.**

[08:31 PM] **Cat** : Can you pick up salad dressing? Your son decided he wanted to paint the dining room wall with it.

[08:40 PM] **Kara** : Why is he my son when he does something wrong?

[08:42 PM] **Cat** : Because reasons.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat Grant** on **April 11 th, 2008** at 06:07PM]

“This is just a courtesy call, letting you know that I will be putting the penthouse up for sale—there was a centipede on the wall, and I blinked, and now I can’t find it. The only logical conclusion is that I have to move. Clark? Did you— _damn it, don’t you dare_ —Kara, your spawn is— _I will not—you put that down, mister_ —”

 **Beep**.

.

[Message left by **Cat Grant** on **April 11 th, 2008** at 06:13PM]

“Crisis averted. There may—or may not—be scorch marks on the wall. I already called the contractor, he can be by this weekend to fix some of the plumbing. Anyway, we miss you. See you tonight, darling.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

**April 05 th, 2008.**

[07:43 AM] **Clark** : Are we still going to the zoo?

[07:51 AM] **Clark** : I know you hear this.

[07:52 AM] **Clark** : I won’t stop.

[07:52 AM] **Clark** : Ever.

[07:58 AM] **Kara** : Yeah, I think we’re leaving at nine; traffic’s going to be horrible. Cat doesn’t want to take the town car—she wants to _drive_.

.

.

**April 16 th, 2008.**

[10:20 PM] **Kara** : I’ll see you this weekend, bud. I love you.

.

.

**April 20 th, 2008.**

[02:44 AM] **Kara** : I love you.

[02:46 AM] **Cat** : I love you too.

[02:46 AM] **Cat** : Not that I don’t love when you say that, any particular reason you’re still up?

[02:46 AM] **Kara** : I’m too excited to sleep.

[02:47 AM] **Kara** : We’re us again.

[02:48 AM] **Cat** : You’re being silly, we’ve always been us.

[02:48 AM] **Cat** : Even when things were…

[02:48 AM] **Cat** : Complicated.

[02:51 AM] **Kara** : But it’s not complicated anymore, and that’s exciting.

[02:51 AM] **Kara** : Right?

[02:51 AM] **Kara** : I mean, I know we’re us, and we’ll always be us.

[02:52 AM] **Kara** : But we’re—I don’t know. The best version of us?

[02:56 AM] **Cat** : There’s no question in my mind that I’ll always be the best version of myself when I have you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Kara Ainsley Callaghan. Now, you need to get some sleep, you still need to pack everything up.

[02:57 AM] **Cat** : I love you.

[02:59 AM] **Kara** : I love you more.

[02:59 AM] **Cat** : Impossible.

.

.

**April 21 st, 2008.**

[12:24 PM] **Alex** : You guise have been together since the beginning of time. I don’t get what the big deal is.

[12:26 PM] **Kara** : We’ve never _lived_ together, Alex. We’ve always had our own places.

[12:26 PM] **Alex** : Did everything a little backwards, didn’t you?

[12:27 PM] **Kara** : You’re so helpful.

[12:27 PM] **Alex** : I know.

[12:27 PM] **Alex** : Relax. Is there any weird night ritual she could possibly do that would make you change your mind?

[12:28 PM] **Kara** : Of course not.

[12:28 PM] **Alex** : Then you don’t have anything to worry about.

[12:28 PM] **Alex** : Do _you_ do something weird?

[12:38 PM] **Kara** : No.

[12:39 PM] **Alex** : You do! That’s what you’re worried about.

[12:39 PM] **Alex** : Do you eat your own toe nails?

[12:39 PM] **Alex** : Do you have toe nails? I’ve never really noticed.

[12:40 PM] **Kara** : I need to go. I have things to do.

[12:40 PM] **Alex** : Like?

[12:43 PM] **Kara** : Anything but talk to you.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat Grant** on **April 22 nd, 2008** at 04:25PM]

“If there a reason the living room has three different paintings of dogs playing poker? Not that I’m not a fan—I absolutely am—but maybe we can hedge it down to one? I swear the one near the window follows me when I move. But anyway—I was calling to ask if you made Carter his dentist appointment? He’s been eating that blue tartar dye by the fistful, I’ve confiscated it permanently. Love you, see you tonight, darling.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Alex Danvers** on **April 23 rd, 2008** at 04:51AM]

“Hey, Kar, we’re getting some weird seismic readings outside the City in the desert. It doesn’t look too serious, but it’s—I don’t know, weird. Call me back if you can.”

**Beep _._**

.

[Message left by **Clark Callaghan** on **April 23 rd, 2008** at 05:16PM]

“I’m on my way.”

**Beep _._**

.

[Message left by **Cat Grant** on **April 23 rd, 2008** at 05:57PM]

“Where are you? Goddamn it Kara, where are you?”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat** **Grant** on **April 29 th, 2008** at 02:34PM]

“We buried you today. Not you, obviously, because you—you’re—who knows where…

…

…

… I’m calling your voicemail just to hear your voice. How pathetic is that? Clark’s still furious with me, he won’t even look at me, but he—God, Kara, and he looked so grown up in his suit. Carter doesn’t—he doesn’t understand, not really. He asks when you’ll be home, and I haven’t been able to tell him—to tell him…

…

…”

 **Beep**.

.

[Message left by **Cat Grant** on **April 29 th, 2008** at 02:47PM]

“I forgot to say I love you—…

… I love you.”

 **Beep**.

.

[Message left by **Clark Callaghan** on **April 29 th, 2008** at 09:17PM]

“…

…

… All children, except one grow up—they soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. O—one day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and c—cried—cried…

… "Oh, why can't you remain like this forever?" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two…

…

… Two is the b—beginning of the end….”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat** **Grant** on **May 04 th, 2008** at 06:15AM]

“I told myself I was going back to work today, but I just couldn’t—you’d tell me to take my time. That it isn’t—that I’m not _weak_ because I miss you. It hurts, and I want it to stop but—but what if that’s all I have left of you?”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Alex** **Danvers** on **May 17 th, 2008** at 02:16AM]

“I picked Cat up again tonight, she’s really not taking this well. Fuck, _this_ , like it isn’t—isn’t _you dying_. She holds it together for Carter, I don’t want you worrying—she—she’s really good with him. But, she’s drinking more—I’m worried…

… Clark’s trying to pretend that everything is okay. He only picks up every fifth phone call, and every thousandth text message. He comes around for Carter—he’s trying to keep up with Carter’s Kryptonian lessons…

… He’s _really_ bad, Kar—his accent, and pronunciation—like, I can’t even believe how bad…

…

… I miss you.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

 **June 2 nd**.

[06:42 PM] **T.** **Mobile** : Your new T-Mobile bill is now available with a total balance of $291.34. Current bill cycle charges are due by 06/24/08. Any past due balance should be paid now at t-mo.co/pay, unless on a payment arrangement. Recent one-time payments may not be reflected above.

.

.

[Message left by **Clark Callaghan** on **June 17 th, 2008** at 07:43PM]

“…

…

… Mom…

…

… I never call you that— _called_ —I can’t call you anything now.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

**July 04 th, 2008.**

[10:13 PM] **Cat** : Happy fourth, darling.

.

.

[Message left by **Capital** **One,** **Inc**. on **July 12 th, 2008** at 08:33AM]

“This is a message for Kara Callaghan in regards to a personal matter. Give us a call back at 1-800-…

…”

**Beep _._**

.

.

**September 10 th, 2008.**

[03:52 AM] **Lena** : I’m worried about Lex.

[03:52 AM] **Lena** : He’s different—he hasn’t been the same since...

[03:53 AM] **Lena** : Since you died.

 

.

.

[Message left by **Clark** **Callaghan** on **December 19 th, 2008** at 12:06AM]

“I can’t lose her too, Kara. I can’t. She looks—they’re so _fragile_. Everything hurts and there’s _nothing_ I can do about it. The doctors say she’ll be fine, that she’ll pull through—but what if they’re wrong? That’s all I can think— _what if—what if—what if_ …

…

… I’m scared. I wish you were here.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

 **January 30 th, 2009**.

[12:01 PM] **Cat** : This is the first year you didn’t wish me a happy birthday at midnight—the first of many, I guess. I fear the day I stop expecting them.

.

.

[Message left by **Alexander** **Luthor** on **April 20 th, 2009** at 03:34PM]

“They’re building a monument to that—that— _alien_. We’d be better off without them here; you’d still be here. Lena’s been telling me that I’m thinking about this all wrong—that I’m not—I don’t know, _myself_. But it’s so clear now what I have to do…

… They took you from me. From Lena, and Clark, and Carter. I—Kara—…

…”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Martha Kent** on **April 22 nd, 2009** at 05:19PM]

“I dialed your number before I realized no one would be picking up—it’s been a year, and I still miss your calls. They weren’t often, but boy did you talk when you did call. When the recording kicked in, I thought it was you for a second, starling. I—shucks, I didn’t even see you often, but there’s a hole, you know? Your…

… Your boy’s just like you. You did right by him, Kara.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat** **Grant** on **May 11 th, 2009** at 02:12PM]

“My therapist thinks I should stop leaving you messages—apparently it isn’t letting me move on—I’m _holding onto the past_. She thinks I should leave you one last message—just one more—and then…move on, I guess…

…

… How can she expect that? I’m learning how to be me without you—I am, I promise. I think I’m still waiting for the miracle. The swelling orchestral music and the pan to stage left—but like I keep telling Alex when she’s looking at me like she doesn’t know how to help—this isn’t a movie. God, I wish it was—because you’re the fucking hero, Kara. The savior, or space Jesus, or—whatever, it doesn’t matter…

… The world’s better off because it had you. Not just _my_ world, or Clark’s world. Literally the _whole world_. How can I let that go? How can I let you go? I can’t…

…

… I feed the ducks at the park now. Carter loves it, he chases them and quacks, and God—I love you. I fucking love you so much, and it hurts—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’d hurt like this forever if it just—if it meant I had you for even a little while. I love you, and—I don’t know—I’ll see who I am without you.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Clark Callaghan** on **June 30 th, 2010** at 11:09PM]

“Am I making a mistake? I just want to make you proud.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **1-323-555-0911** on **August 08 th, 2010** at 03:46PM]

“Hey _ieue_ , mom doesn’t know I have a phone yet, Clark gave me one of his old ones. He said I can call you when he isn’t here to take me to see you. He said it isn’t weird—that he talks to you all the time. I don’t want mom to know because she gets upset, even if she’ll never say it out loud…

…I love you _, ieue_.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat** **Grant** on **February 23 rd, 2011** at 08:14AM]

“That idiot! I blame you for this, Kara Ainsley Callaghan. He’s—after _everything_ —why can’t our children just be content to read and watch television? No, of course not—he has to fly around like a damned color wheel and save the fucking day…

…Christ…

…This is just what I need for my blood pressure—I thought I was done with this vigilante bullshit…

…

…

… I—I can’t lose him too, Kara. I can’t. ”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Bruce Wayne** on **November 07 th, 2011** at 01:01 AM]

“You’re dead, and now he is too—Jason’s dead. It’s my fault, and I can’t—there’s no one left who would blame me, except myself. You asked me to look after him, you made me promise to protect him—I’m a fraud. And there’s no one left to realize that.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **1-800-555-8761** on **January 2 nd, 2012** at 10:13 AM]

“Having trouble with those New Year’s resolutions? Club Fit’s having their annual 45% off Beginning of the Year sale! Come down to one of our Club Houses and…”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Clark** **Callaghan** on **October 12 th, 2013** at 08:13 PM]

“You always told me I’d know when I found _the one_ , and I know I always rolled my eyes and laughed—but, I get it now. She works with me at the Planet, and I’m pretty sure Perry would adopt her as his own if he didn’t already have four kids. Her name’s Lois, I think you’d really like her…

…And—I just wanted to let you know… I love you.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **1-323-555-0911** on December **23 rd, 2014** at 07:511 PM]

“Mom started dating again. She keeps telling me that I don’t have to be okay with it—but I know that if I wasn’t okay with it, she’d stop. I don’t want her to be alone, _ieue_ , even if she acts like it doesn’t bother her. Dad’s been setting her up on blind dates—I’m pretty sure they just like yelling at each other…

… She…

… She brought the pictures of you out of her room a few weeks ago—right before Thanksgiving. That’s good, right? I—I think she was afraid to move on for a while…

…I love you.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Kassidy** **O’Doherty** on **May 24 th, 2015** at 6:26 AM]

“Shit, really? I didn’t—fuck…

…”

 **Beep**.

.

[Message left by **Kassidy O’Doherty** on **May 24 th, 2015** at 10:07 PM]

“Hey. I didn’t realize the kid’s been calling you—I mean, fuck, I guess it makes sense. People talk to grave rocks, why not—voicemails? Fuck. I was so going to fucking narq on him to Cat too—fuck—now I’m getting all goddamn misty eyed and it’s fucking sweet. Damn it…

… Shit, Callaghan. You know I don’t fucking like crying? And now I’m talking like you’re going to ever fucking get this…”

 **Beep**.

.

[Message left by **Kassidy** **O’Doherty** on **May 25 th, 2015** at 12:03 AM]

“I do miss you, dude.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Alex Danvers** on **December 27 th, 2015** at 11:00 AM]

“Hey. Mom’s in town for the holidays and she’s—I don’t know—she’s trying to set me up with the son of someone she knows. He’s a _doctor_. I caved, like I always do—but, I don’t know. I—I don’t. God…

… never mind, this was stupid.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Alex Danvers** on **January 09 th, 2016 **at 01:32 PM]

“I’m so confused, Kara. Sometimes I feel like I’ve never— _known_ myself, and other times it feels like it’s been this way forever. I can’t talk to Cat because she’d be _too_ fine with it, and this feel— _monumental_. I need. I need to feel like this is as big a deal as it feels like…

… I haven’t even said it, I can’t—I don’t think I’ve ever actually said it out loud…

…

… I’m gay…

…”

 **Beep**.

.

.

 **November 24 th, 2016**.

[12:41 PM] **Cat** : Did you remember that you have to pick my mother up from the airport?

[12:41 PM] **Clark** : Why do I have to?

[12:42 PM] **Kassidy** : Because she hates me.

[12:43 PM] **Clark** : See? You have nothing to lose.

[12:44 PM] **Clark** : It’s a win/win! You can’t make a _worse_ impression.

[12:47 PM] **Cat** : Clark. You’re picking up your grandmother.

[12:48 PM] **Kassidy** : Oh shit, kid, she’s pulling out the _mom_ card.  

[12:51 PM] **Clark** : Fine, fine. But I want two dozen stuffing cups to myself.

[01:06 PM] **Cat** : Did you include Kara’s number in this? Kass, you insensitive fuck.

[01:09 PM] **Kassidy** : Shit, did I? I must’ve double clicked.

[01:09 PM] **Kassidy** : Sorry.

.

.

[Message left by **Clark Callaghan** on **June 05 th, 2017** at 5:01 PM]

“There’s an entire section in the Museum of Natural History about Krypton—it just opened this spring, and it’s insane. I brought Carter last weekend and he had the time of his life. I asked Cat if she wanted to come, and she decided to stay in National City. Jokes on her—I asked around—the whole thing was funded by CatCo Worldwide media; any money made gets donated to the Alien Refugee Coalition…

… There’s an entire wall dedicated to Rao; the star and the Deity. It talks about how there’s only seventeen minutes of dark in Argo City. It reminded me so much of the stories you’d tell me growing up…

… I wish I could have brought you to see this. They’re coming around, slowly, but I think humanity will be alright…

… Mainly because of you, even if they don’t know it.”

 **Beep**.

.

.

[Message left by **Cat** **Grant** on **August** **14 th**, **2018** at 07:14 PM]

“It feels like years since I left the last message—It never occurred to me how, but I used to fear the day my last connection to you would just—disappear.  Everyone talks about death like it’s a single solitary moment, just this _thing_ that happens to everyone eventually. As if, “Oh, they’re dead” and that’s the last of it. But it’s so much harder—so much _longer_. It’s cleaning out closets, and remembering that you don’t have to buy a certain flavor of yogurt anymore—it’s changing medical proxies and amending wills. It’s a list of a million and one things—and you don’t realize it’ll be _years_ until someone isn’t actively dying on official forms and in letters marked _return to sender_ …

…

… I bought the fig yogurt you love for the first time in years this afternoon. Ten of them, and it wasn’t until I was putting them away in the fridge that I really accepted it. You’re _back._ You’re _alive_. I can get in my car and drive across town and _see_ you…

… Every time I go to sleep, I fear I’ll wake up and this has all been some elaborate dream—some cliché Hollywood plot-twist that’s meant to be _revolutionary_. I try to stay awake—but I’m only human, and I inevitably…

… But you’re still here. Every morning. You’re here, and there’s fig yogurt in my fridge…

… I love you, Kara. So fucking much that it hurt for so long. But I’d hurt forever if it means having you for one moment _more_.”

 **Beep**.

* * *

“ _The mailbox you’re calling is full and cannot accept new messages at this time_.”

 **Beep**.


	69. snap shot 69. ( 3, 19, 31, 33 )

* * *

**SNAP SHOT (KASSIDY)**. Sometimes you think you want something until you're almost given it.

* * *

National City looks different from a mile in the air—there’s the expected flickering lights, there’s the sprawling jungle of concrete and chrome, but below are landmarks you can’t see anywhere else. There’s _stories_ in the bright little lights so far below. Out in the desert where forevers can be made and forgotten. You’re a softer man at midnight in the sky—looking down at all the untold secrets bottled away for tomorrows. Secrets that have no place in the airport terminals you spend half your days in. There’s a static stillness to the whole affair, a staleness that lingers in clothes and in a person’s very bones.

You have an apartment in the city—a rant check you deduct every month even though there’s never food in the fridge, and the furniture is all poorly crafted department store monstrosities. Cat hadn’t asked you to have a residence in the city—she didn’t _expect_ it of you, but you had buckled down two months ago and had bought a two bedroom on the decent side of town. Nowhere near the penthouses on the north end, or the brownstones of the west-side, but it was clean, and air conditioned—the most you had really asked for at the time. You’d gone down to the Department of Motor Vehicles and turned in your Massachusetts driver’s license for one from the state of California.

You’d been sixteen and desperate when you’d gotten it—you hadn’t been able to count on your cigarette burn of a father, or your strung out mother. So you’re lied. You’d had an older friend pretend to be your parent, had them sign all those legally binding formed and you’d taken the test—only to fail your first three times. When you’d gotten that permit—then license—you’d had a freedom that had meant more than the few hours after school that your father didn’t start accounting for until your senior year—you could go _anywhere_.

Years later you’d still tether so much freedom to that Massachusetts license—it didn’t matter how many stamps were in your passport, or how far from South Boston you travelled. It was that first taste that mattered—a taste that you used to judge the rest of your palette.

Leaving your bag in the hall, you consult the messages in your phone—most don’t even have contact information, just jumbles of numbers that will be forgotten with the next quarter. When you’re in Germany, or Austin, or New York City—wherever was having a crisis next. The last message isn’t one you’re expecting—but neither are you particularly surprised.

Alexandra Danvers is good people—you’ve really come to accept this as fact.

You’d messaged Cat to let her know you’d be in town, and that you’d like to see Carter—if it wasn’t too much trouble. You tried to be closer now—closer since National City had been redecorated by some space monster. Since you’d watched Cat’s building be demolished—since you’d realized one of the most important people in your life wouldn’t be coming back.

[12:34 AM] **Cat Grant** : It’s Alex. I have Cat, she’ll message you back in the morning. I think Carter’s with Clark this weekend.

You know you’re apartment is empty and cold—a chill that had nothing to do with temperature, but the lack of personal touches, or the _lived in_ feeling you’ve come to crave. So you stop by Cat’s—punching in the code once you unlock the door—the McDonalds bag you’d picked up on your way over plunking down unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. There’s only an empty bottle of wine in the sink, and two empty bottles of scotch in the recycling bin.

Even with all the dark and untouched places were paintings of dogs playing poker had been only weeks ago, the penthouse is _home_ —it’s the dent in the couch, and the scuffs on the door frames. You want to ask her how she knew to do those things—how she learned. It sure as hell wasn’t her mother—you’d met the shrew of a woman and she’d hated you since you’d _accidentally_ —on purpose—told her to calm her titties. Katherine Grant—the senior—was a glacier eroding the green of the earth slowly. A creeping death to all fauna both beautiful and vast.

The door clicks, the alarm beeps, and the fumbling in the hall makes you stand—Cat’s laughing, flushed at the cheeks and trying to tug her heels off ineffectively, and Alex is shaking her head and making sure the alarm doesn’t go off. There’s a routineness to it that makes you frown—a familiarity in moving around each other that makes you wonder how many times Alex has had to pick Cat up from some wayward night of another.

You knew—you can’t say you didn’t, it’s the type of thing you’d become very acquainted with growing up. There wasn’t a single family in South Boston that didn’t have someone teetering home at two in the morning, full of fire water and regrets. But it’d never really felt like _your place_ to tell her it wouldn’t help—that it had never helped you—so you’d stayed quiet. You’d agreed to take Carter, even if it meant a six hour layover in Detroit and a missed convention.

“McDonalds?” Alex asks while walking away from Cat and into the kitchen.

You shrug, “it was all that was open.” Quieter, lower in your chest. “How’s she doing?”

“As well as you’d think.” She says, hands opening and then shoving into her pockets—before being removed and falling limp at her sides. “Bad.” She looks tired—it’s the darkness under her eyes, and the wrinkles in her clothes.

“I can stay with her, I’m pretty fucking clutch when it comes to drunks.”

“She’s not a drunk, she’s—,” Alex chews the word, brow tucking. “She’s having a hard time.”

“That’s a fuck-all delicate way to put it.”

In the end, Alex agrees—she cups Cat’s face like it’s goodbye and then awkwardly chucks her in the shoulder with a loosely closed fist. Cat turns and watches you like she’s just realizing you’re here, despite the fact that Alex had pointed you out at least twice. There’s an angry coloring to her, and you know she’s spoiling for a fight—the scuff on her cheek says she’s probably already tried to start something with someone else.

Walking up to her you see the slightest thickening to her bottom lip and the prick of blood on her pale collar. It’s the brightness in her eyes that gives her away more than any physical reminder—glassy and faraway. It’s a look you’re familiar with—something that used to look back at you every morning in the mirror when you’d tried to explain away the actions of the night before.

“What a statement piece,” you comment, thumbing the collar that’s stained with red. “Looking classy as fuck, Grant.”

The bitter dipped edge of her laugh makes you uncomfortable; it’s all kinds of wrong, and you want to push it away. The sound a bastardized version of something you love. She’s whole hands shorter than you without her ridiculous heels, and the sway gives her away ten times out of ten, but there’s a drawling prowl to her step. A sway to her hips that captivate you, even now. You could plead being only human—only male—but you should know better.

“Kassidy, Kassidy, Kassidy.”

Should know enough to understand that the soft hand at your shoulder—and then across your collarbones—isn’t anything soft or kind.

Isn’t anything right or good.

“So, what,” she’s whispering softly, a purring drawl so close to your ear. “Kara’s gone and you don’t have to settle for _just_ friendship anymore?” You see the beautiful green of her hurricane eyes, and the perfect curve of her neck to her shoulder—you’re caught up in all that, as she knows you will be—that it takes you a minute to catch up to her actual words. To the implications. She’s walking you backward until your shoulders thump against the wall and she looms—half a foot shorter, it shouldn’t be possible.

“Wait, what—fuck, Grant.” You’re shaking away that stupid male part of your brain, you’re looking past the gems in her eyes to the hurt, and the glassy anger spoiling for something to _hurt_. Spoiling for something that doesn’t have to involve fists and blood stains. Ruin can been bloodless and so much quieter than that. “Do you really think that?”

“Why else would you be here at—,” she’s squinting down at her watch. _Kara’s gone_. It’s the most blasé way you’ve heard it—the words sloppy and just _out there_. You’d missed the funeral, you’d been childish and selfish—staying away because you hadn’t been willing to face the truth just then. You’d thought of yourself and had hid behind transparent facts. “—one in the morning?”

 _Kara’s gone_ —you’re thinking still.

It’s a bleeding in your bones.

“Because you’re having a hard fucking time, and I don’t know—I’m your friend?” You wished it didn’t sound so plastic—so _unsure_ —but it lives in the ache in your heart that’s silly and illogical, that you have no true grasp on. No control over. It isn’t the first time you’ve said it, and it won’t be the last—but it always trips off your tongue like it’s the first time. “You’re making it seem like this is a surprise. I didn’t fucking know you were so goddamned opposed to the idea.”

“ _Please_ ,” she rolls the word as readily as she rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to be my friend. You’re the sympathetic shoulder to cry on, you’ll let me be _vulnerable_ around you. You’ll _understand_.” The lackluster roll of her wrist had been endearing, once upon a time, but it’s a edged consolation as she grins razor blades at you. She’s shoving off her jacket, fingers dragging harshly against the open splay of her collar. “I’ve seen it a thousand times before—I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”

You feel claustrophobic with how she’s stepping between you and the exit every time you move to either side—it’s that crawl under your skin that says _go_ , before anything can actually happen. But your heart hurts, and your blood’s cold—you think about how broken people try to hurt themselves. How self-inflicted harm is so much better than what can’t be controlled. Cat’s looking at you not like her friend—or like the father of her child—or any of the thousand things you actually are. You’re a safety razor with the pink plastic whittled away—you’re the shallow cut on the soft side of her thigh because no one will think to look there.

You’re a pain she’s chasing.

But you won’t oblige her this.

Sometimes—when Carter’s babbling in your ear and Cat’s rolling her eyes, you can imagine you’d do anything for her to step just a bit closer. To say _I love you_ in words, and not just the implications you can’t ignore—she does, you know she does, but you _yearn_ for the soft and tender look she gets in her eyes only for Kara. That careful oblivion that’s precious and unforgettable.

You’d do almost anything she asks—but not this.

Never this.

“I’m getting that we’re not having the same conversation.” You’re hot under the collar, you’re burning inside, but you won’t stay for this—won’t break yourself just so that she can marvel at your pieces. “I can go, it’s whatever—there’s Advil in the kitchen and something to eat. It’s McDonalds, but it was the only fucking thing open.”

Hands up and stepping around her, you wished it didn’t feel so _heavy_ to walk away, but she’ll be better in the morning. She’ll be some splintering version of herself and you’ll forgive her tonight. “Don’t,” it’s a whisper—somewhere in the vaulted ceilings of her penthouse, in the big empty places where boxes had been, pieces of Kara that had been moving in—only to be brought back across town. Turning on your heel, Cat’s standing there—hands at her sides, the shake in her shoulders so slight you think it’s your eyes at first. “Don’t go.”

The stained glass of her eyes is foggy and cracked—she’s trying to blink rapidly to remove the tears, staring up at the ceiling lights like you don’t know every trick in the book to hide how you’re feeling. Inhaling breaths like they can fill her up and push everything else out, you smile because _this_ is your Cat. This imperfect person trying her best to—to be _something_. “I thought—,” she stops herself, stops her words and whatever thought lives with them. Squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them to stare directly at you—she’s beautiful, even when she’s crying. Her pale skin getting blotchy and her nose turning red and beginning to run. “I didn’t want you to leave too.”

Shoulders square, voice steady. “Men leave.”

Simple, concise. The _when they don’t get what they want_ is all but implied.

You feel a little sick.

“I’m not—shit, Grant—I’m not like that.” You think of all the times you had been _exactly_ like that—had slipped out in the morning, or played some pretend part. Your therapist says you mimic those around you—that you’re a _mirror_. He likes to fashion explanations to why you’re a complete douchebag half the time—but you don’t even need to _consider_ those academic excuses, because it hadn’t even occurred to you to want what she’d been offering. Hadn’t even been close to a desire you fostered. “I’m not _settling_. You’re friendship isn’t some—I don’t fucking know—some consolation prize.”

You imagine she’s looking at you the same you’re looking at her—the _please_ evident, the need blatant. Cat Grant’s your closest friend. One step closer—two.

“You’re important to me, Cat—not just because we have a kid together, or because I’m in love with you.” She flinches like you’ve cursed, and somehow it feels good to say it out loud—the truth that thrums inside you, and has for _years_. Cat’s looking away, like she’s trying to focus on anything but you.

It’s liberating in a way to be rid of your worst kept secret—you’re not some emotional teenage boy, you’re not some unevolved man. You’re stupidly and thankfully in love with someone so damned important to you. “You don’t get to act surprised now after that whole dog and pony show. I’m in love with you, and I’m fine with that—I’m not biding my time until you cave, or whatever.”

“I’m don’t want to hurt you, I don’t—,” _now_ she’s looking, the tears drying on her cheeks, the clench in her jaw harsh. “You’re important to me too, Kassidy. You know that, right?” She’s getting tired—it’s in her voice, in the turn of her shoulders, and when she slumps down onto the ridiculously comfortable couch in the corner, you don’t hesitate to follow suit. An extra foot between you, space she’s purposely keeping there—not because she’s afraid, you see those thoughts bleeding away—but because she doesn’t want to mind your boundaries.

“I do,” simple, concise. “You don’t hurt me by not being in love with me, you fucking idiot.” You grin at her when she whips around to glare at you, but you only pat the spot next to you—she scowls, glaring, before shifting into the space under your arm. “You hurt me when you don’t think your friendship is exactly what I want.” What you _need_. The safety of being close to someone without expectations—or, at least expectations that you’re not aware of.

You know where you stand with Cat Grant.

“Most men don’t like the friendzone.”

“That’s because most guys are misogynistic asshats.” It feels right to have the weight of her head on your shoulder, the warmth of her body tucked into yours—your heart flutters and there is that miniscule clench, but it pales in comparison to how happy you are that she’s part of your life. That she’ll allow you this moment of being here for her—not the person she pretends to be on television, or the person she lets everyone believe she is.

“You’re a good guy, Kass.” She’s losing consciousness fast, turning toward you to borrow your warmth. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s the thing about loving someone, Grant. Doesn’t matter what you deserve.”

Sleepy and safe, “I love you.”

For one fucking second, you’re Han Solo. “I know.”


	70. snap shot 70. ( 2, 17, 33, 35 48 )

**SNAP SHOT (KATHERINE)**. You learn to bend very late in life; when those around you stop accommodating your rigid ways. prompt // kasadilla11, and anonymous.

* * *

The beach house is much different than the penthouse you’ve become accustomed to—the breeze is a little chillier than cool, and the sun obscured by hazy clouds sluggishly drifting. The town car pulls up to the front of the house and you _can’t_ ignore the tacky green balloons tied to virtually every surface in the front yard. Banisters, fence posts, balcony edges—even tree branches. You stop counting well after twenty and too close to fifty to be comfortable. Waiting for your driver to open the door, you shrug your shawl a little higher to your neck and gather your belongings.

You haven’t been back to National City in two years—you’d considered it far too often, but in the end you’d been comfortable with the decision to stay on the east coast. Carter was in Metropolis at least once a month—to see his _brother_ —and you were still unable to say no when he suggested activities. Luckily, he was easily persuaded to go to art galleries, or workshops—much easier to persuade than your daughter. Catherine was more steadfast in her distance—canceling plans through assistants, or pleading prior engagements and leaving early.

You don’t _blame_ her, you don’t—but you can’t stop the churlish bubble in your stomach when she shrugs on her coats after only ten or fifteen minutes. You want to apologize, to take back your words—but they spin and spiral and you don’t _understand_ what had gone wrong. You can usually pin point the approximate moment, but it’s foggy and lacking precision. _What is it_ , you want to ask, _why_ , you’re desperate to know—but you can’t bring yourself to folding. Can’t bend and curve to the need to understand.

It only takes two steps from the car.

“Gramma!” A voice screeches from somewhere far to your right—the sun blisters from behind the clouds for a moment and you’re forced to squint—before a small body slams heartily into you. A small face happily burrowing into your stomach, little arms wrapped tightly around your thighs. She’s giggling and wiggling in excitement—your driver looks both frightened and puzzled, his hands half lifted like he’s considering trying to pry the small child off of you.

Clearing your throat a little louder than necessary, you wait for the inevitable shift—twinkling little green eyes peer up at you through horrible blonde bangs. You can see where she’d obviously tried to cut her own hair—the single chunk in the middle shorter and uneven. She’s still giggling her nose running and being wiped on the dark blue of your Alexander McQueen sheath.

You can practically _feel_ the mucus being left on your person.

“You’re a complete mess,” you say, brows arching down at the little girl still wrapped around you—you _itch_ for the disinfectant in your bag. You can see dirt smudged on her cheeks, and on the part of her arms not covered in some horrible cotton-blend. “Is no one minding you, Little Lark?” She eagerly nods her head, and then disentangles herself enough to shift to your side—face pressed to your hip, thumb in her mouth, while her other grubby hand clutches at your dress.

“Sorry about that.” Clark Callaghan needs a haircut, but you’ve thought that since he was a toddler. In his Target jeans and Hanes shirt, he looks every piece the ruffian you know him to be. He stops about five feet away to rock back on his heels and shove hands in his pocket—it’s impressive how such a broad shouldered man-boy tries to take up less space. “This one’s wily when she wants to be.”

“Just letting children run into traffic are we, Mr. Callaghan?” Sniffing in annoyance, the girl tethered to your hip just laughs loudly and rubs her face further into your clothes. As the man-boy steps forward to remove his sibling, you stoop to scoop the girl up—still small and light enough to settle on your hip, she tucks her disgusting little face against your neck, still sucking on her thumb.

“Mr. Callaghan was my grandfather,” he says with a hapless shrug, and you want to flick his ear and tell him that shrugging is for the weak of constitution—but you refrain, as you are wont to do these days. “You’ve known me for thirty-five years, I think you can call me Clark.”

Humming at the back of your throat you look down at the top of the blonde head at your hip. “You’re a gross little creature, aren’t you?”

It isn’t a compliment, but she’s nodding with much enthusiasm. “Me’n mommy are digging up wormses. We’re gonna go water fishing.” It explains the dirt on her hands—including the thumb she’s sucking on. Wrinkling your nose in distaste, you hook a finger through her hand and remove the digit from her mouth.

“Sounds rather disgusting.”

She grins, now sucking on a piece of her hair that dared go near her mouth. “ _So_ disgusting.”

Alondra had been quite the surprise—you’d just gotten over the fact that Catherine had finally married her street urchin— _Kara_ you remind yourself for what seems like the thousandth time—after thirty five years. Carter had invited you to some museum exhibit—something boring and scientific that he’d enjoyed explaining the entire three hours the two of you had been there—and had let it _slip_. You wonder now if they would have ever told you had he not _let the cat out of the bag_ as the saying goes.

The little girl hadn’t been Catherine’s by birth, that much had become obvious from the pictures on Carter’s mobile telephone—your daughter worried and milling at the edge of every photograph, trying to deal with not know exactly what to do to make everything better. Carter—the senior—had been the same when you’d been pregnant, he hovered and worried, taking every cough as a cue that the end was neigh. It’d been endearing—up until it became smothering—but something about it had made you swallow the desire to snap at him.

Maybe it was the _aw shucks_ smile he’d patented, or that he knew exactly what was bothering you—usually before even you did.

You’d prepared for all manner of commentary about picking up more strays when the small wisp yellow haired infant had opened surprisingly green eyes. _Carter_ ’s—the senior’s—eyes. Your late husband had a very unique hue to his gaze—all manner of green, with little hints of some color the poet in your mistook for gold too readily. Catherine had inherited them, it was one of the first things that had made your heart flutter when you’d held her to your chest—everything had felt hazy and distant those first few months after giving birth. Like everything simply strolled away and when it returned it just seemed to _warble_. Everything felt wrong; too large, _and_ too small—feelings, skin, your very _brain_ , it all fit improperly. But all of that peeled away for just a few moments when she’d blinked sleepy green eyes open.

Like a curtain pulling back to show how everything _should_ have been

Alondra’s were even closer to your husband’s than your daughter’s—they were lighter, and _greener_ , somehow. She’d only grown into them, too. The almost transient color had been easily misconstrued for blue at first, you’d be able to convince yourself it was the lighting—some reflection—until she’d been a few months old. Tumbling excitedly around the floor without much mind for sharp edges, she’d blinked green eyes up at you and had promptly decided you were one of her favorite people.

“S’my birthday.” She whispers now in your ear, runny nose tucked into your neck, wet hair sticking uncomfortably to your collar bones where it had fallen out of her mouth. Your skin _crawls_ , but you mind it much better than you once would. “Gonna be cake.”

“Is that what today is? Oh dear, I’d completely forgotten.” You say dryly, without tone, walking around the edge of the house to the backyard that has—if possible—even more balloons.

“You ‘membered.” Alondra insists.

Tampering down on your smile to something of a twitching lip, “absolutely not.”

“You gots chocolate.” Prompting a very lackluster wiggle, until she settles again. “I smells it.”

“Do you now?” You’d gotten into the fight with your daughter not long after Alondra’s birth—if you wanted anything to do with your grandchildren, you had to mind yourself. That was how Catherine had put it— _mind yourself_. She looks at you with edges you’re unfamiliar with—they aren’t new, you feel, but they’re sharper, or maybe just more prominent. She doesn’t hedge words as she used to—even when she’d been at the top of her media empire, she’d folded just enough for you to feel like you were needed.

Like you were the wall to her back when the winds of the world threatened to topple her from the top.

When she’d been young, you saw your mother’s stubbornness in her lines—resolve ugly and unbecoming, a wedge that was unable to be removed. You’d had principle, and you’d had what was best for her in your bones.

“This little girl will not be subject to you like I was,” she’d said, arms crossed, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess. You’d itched to reach out and straighten her collar, tell her to put on _at least_ eyeliner—but you’d been pinned by the look in her eyes. Not Carter’s, or your mother’s—it was something entirely foreign in her. Some side you’d somehow missed completely. She burns with it, to the flush in her cheeks and the tuck to her brow—you want to ask her _when_ , but you’d been angry, and _hurt_.

“ _Subject_ to me?” You remember sneering, lip curling.

Spoiling for a fight—Catherine’s shoulders pushing up and forward, her entire body leaning into the confrontation as she always does—but you’d both been disarmed by a snuffling sigh. Kara—now a grown woman with tired blue eyes and a crooked smile—stepping absently between you and your daughter as if it was nothing at all and unceremoniously plunking a small infant into your arms. The little bundle still sleep warm and content—that tightness in your chest releasing, that meddling warble spilling out and away for a bit making you feel everything in its entirety. Her little face scrunched, lips puckering—white blonde hair, pink skin, and the perfect little nose.

“What’s best isn’t always the best schools and propriety,” Catherine’s urchin had said, hands looking unsure now that she doesn’t have a child in them. She’s tall, you’d always known that, but she fit the height now—each gangly limb proportionate and accounted for. “Sometimes just being there is enough—she’ll love you plenty for just that.” You wanted to ask what an orphan knows about having someone _be_ _there_ , but you can’t forget a man old at time itself shuffling beside your daughter months after you’d made it clear she wasn’t to return.

An elderly man who carried boxes across town to what would be your daughter’s first apartment.

“But,” Kara continued, reaching out to smooth Alondra’s untamable hair down, “Chocolate probably doesn’t hurt, right?”

* * *

It’s getting late, and you’re trying to understand how this has become your life—at what point did you bend and break until you were pieces of a person _allowed_ to be here? Alondra’s screaming with happiness down the beach—chasing three adults with fistfuls of worms and a banshee’s wail. The more responsible adults—Kara's aunt, some little computer hobbit, and the two agents, Alexandra and Hank—have decided to remain near the grill, the latter dressed sharply in a _kiss the cook_ apron. You’re reminded of the afternoon you’d come home to Catherine babysitting her smallest stray—that crinkled piece of paper in your hand, that disappointment in your chest. You don’t understand how that moment—brought you here.

“Here,” there’s a beer in front of your eyes, sweating and dark—following the hand extending it, you find Catherine. She’s taken the tie out of her hair and it’s curling naturally at her chin—dark blonde at the roots to let you know she hasn’t colored it in a while. There’s the glimpses of gray at the temples, little silver threads pulled through her hair that let you know she isn’t trying to hide the age, not like she might’ve once. She isn’t looking at you, she’s looking at where her daughter is shoving worms into Kassidy’s mouth despite his struggles—both Kara and Clark have the man-boy pinned to the sand.

“I don’t drink beer.” You intone, despite taking it from her hand. “Especially from a bottle.”

“Shame, it’s imported.” She exhales the words and sits down beside you—legs extended, toes curling into the sand until she rocks backward and settles her hands on her stomach. She has an identical beer in her grasp, half-finished and sweating profusely. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I wouldn’t miss my granddaughter’s second birthday.”

“You’ve missed a lot over the years, I’ve stopped trying to judge where you’ll put the line.”

Catherine isn’t looking at you, but she doesn’t sound—there’s no bitterness in her voice, no anger in her green eyes. That had been when you realized the difference between her eyes and her father’s. Carter—the senior—had soft eyes. They were pliant and content, even when he’d shared his body with disease—even when his life was shortened from decades, to years, to months—he’d taken it with a grace that you couldn’t _understand_. You’d asked him in private to fight, to struggle, and _stay_ , but he’d simply smiled away the pain and cupped your cheeks. Soft, _soft_ eyes asking you to forgive him.

Catherine—her edges are hard and present, and in places you often forgot to look as she grew—she had gotten so good at hiding them young, so good at tucking them away until you’d only be able to see them out of the corner of your eye, or much too late. Her eyes _burned_ , and you’d tried so hard to keep her from her own flames. Kept her from the scorching heat that so many crumble to.

Most of the time you’re sure you did—sometimes, you’re not positive.

“Are we going to dig up ancient history then?”

“Not today,” bottle to lips, you watch as she drains a considerable amount. “I want to thank you, actually.”

This feels like a moment. Something inarticulate but sure. There’s a finality in the way she simply watches—Carter’s wisely choosing to keep his distance from the chaos that is the bodies writhing on the beach. Kassidy and Clark have turned on Kara and are currently burying her in sand—Alondra seems intent on being project manager to the efforts, pointing where she’d like each individual handful. Kara’s being a good sport about it, barely reacting when Clark’s told to upend an arm full of sand over her head.

“I’ve done so much,” you won’t say you’re _nervous_ , that’s ridiculous. Preposterous. But you’re _something_. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Arrogant to the nth, even now.” Catherine laughs, drinking more of her imported beer. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it—decades, really—and I’ve come to the conclusion that so much wouldn’t have happened in my life if you had been even a decent parent.”

Like a bolt to your heart—which you’re sure Catherine is assured doesn’t exist—you watch how she simply looks at her family. The stoic woman with the tacky white streak in her hair—Kara’s biological aunt, _apparently_ —is dragging Kassidy through the sand by his ankles while he loudly apologizes and begs for her to have mercy in her _obviously proportionate heart, which is in no way the size of a raisin_. Clark’s laughing, and Kara’s tossing Alondra up into the air a little higher than is probably safe—but the girl’s giggling.

They’re all happy.

“You’ve always made me your villain.” It hurts somewhere you can’t feel most of the time, that place you bury beneath work, and gatherings, and award shows. Beneath all the lace and glitter you’ve accumulated over the years. “I only ever loved you.”

You needed her to want for nothing—to never worry about what’s being said in the next room, or wonder where her next meal would be coming from, or why no one seemed to care what happened to her. You wanted her to be someone everyone acknowledged when she walked into a room—you wanted people to _feel_ when she left.

Your world had been a sour thing until Carter had ambled through the harder side of Metropolis without a care in the world—no care, and soon, no car keys. He’d ended up mugged and an alley only blocks from your apartment and he’s _awh shucks_ ’ed his way into your heart, right into the cracks in its cement foundation. He poured himself into each and every one of your cracks until you forgot about them yourself—his friends became your friends, and his family became your family. You hadn’t realized—until he died—what fair-weather friends and family they had all been.

“Not my villain, my—origin story.” She’s smiling wide and must see your quirked eyebrow. “You know—what makes those everyday people into heroes. Batman wasn’t _born_ Batman; he _became_ the Dark Knight. And Superman—well, at some point Superman was just a kid who needed a skateboard for his twelfth birthday, or needed to learn how to shave for prom.” Catherine pauses, and then takes another sip of beer. “Or something.”

“Is this to be your coming out party then? You’re going to pull the tights from where you have them tucked away in the back of your closet?”

“Hardly,” scoffing, Catherine rotates to dig the empty bottle into the sand beside her bare feet and she leans forward—elbows on her knees. “This is me saying I forgive you.”

“Do you want me to apologize for wanting the best for you?” You say—harsh, brittle at the edges—and inwardly you cringe for sounding like your mother. A damned harpy of a woman. “Because I won’t. You are who you are because of me.”

“I am who I am, because of me.” She corrects, lips pursing for a moment before she glances over her shoulder. The urchin— _Kara_ —is standing alone, turned away from the rough housing going on in the ocean. You find yourself snared by blue eyes and you have the distinct impression that she can hear everything that’s being said—despite the breeze, and the distance. She’s already walking in your direction and you’re squaring up for a confrontation, but Catherine’s shaking her head and turning back to you. Not even watching how Kara stops and frowns, before turning back to the chaos on the beach.

“Kara said something the other night, and I won’t lie—it caused a rather loud argument. I can’t even remember what had led to it, but she said _you’re just like your mother_. It was supposed to be a compliment, or—an observation, I suppose.” Toes wiggling and digging into the sand until they vanish, you want to slap her knee and tell her to stop fidgeting—but she’s looking up and you don’t think she’s ever looked more like she father. “It wasn’t until she was in the guest room and I was mulling it over instead of sleeping that I realized she was right.”

Catherine smiles, and it’s her father’s lopsided smile. The one you’d gotten her to stop doing when she was young because it wasn’t _ladylike_.

You didn’t realize until now that you missed it.

“I _am_ like you—I’m confident, passionate, and determined. I don’t let others tell me my worth, and I don’t wait for opportunities to fall in my lap.” The sand over her toes cracks as she lifts them, and the grains fall back to the ground as she sits up straighter—more ‘woman in a boardroom’ than she’s been all day. “Maybe I’m not exactly who you wanted, maybe I’m disappointing in some way—but I don’t regret it. Not any of it.”

“This isn’t what I pictured for you. It isn’t what I wanted for you.” You try to pull back on the words as they’re tripping off your tongue, but they’re gone and away before you can curb the impulse to speak your mind. You don’t know how to properly articulate the feeling in your chest, the gurgling anxiety that brims and flows with every beat of your heart. Breathing in deeply through your nose, you feel the pressure dissipate, and you feel a little lighter.

Catherine hasn’t reacted—she’s settled somewhere between resignation, and acceptance. You think her _lack_ of surprise is what spurs the burn on your stomach.

You try again.

“I never.” Pause, breath— _try again_ , you hear Carter in your ear, _she’ll understand if you let her_. The man who believed in the women in his life until the day he died—until his too-large heart stuttered and stopped. “I never thought to think of a family. University, and then a respectable job in publishing—maybe an author. It didn’t occur to me that family would—that you’d take so well to it.” The words feel clumsy, even if they are even and steady and timed right.

“You never had much interest in boys—I suppose I understand why, now.” Raising a brow in Kara’s direction.

“You forget that the father of my youngest son was part of my bridal party.”

“Touché,” this _light_ kind of conversation seems novel and foreign—the kind of discourse that happens in novels just after everything’s tumbled apart. After the dust has settled and there’s a lull of quiet. A moment of consideration. “This may not be what I wanted for you—but you aren’t disappointing. You’re—I’m…proud of you.”

Catherine laughs—it’s the surprised bark of laughter that she’d fill the house with in her youth. “That sounded _painful_.”

She’s delighted.

“Please do continue to guffaw like a hooligan, Catherine. I’ll wait.” You play the part of perturbed, but just below it you’re happy to make her laugh. You can make Alondra laugh without trying—giggle made girl, that one—and Carter’s fallen victim to your particular brand of human. It’s—enlightening.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it just sounded so awkward.”

You’re smiling it without even thinking about it, the slightest curl of your lips that you only realize is there when Catherine returns the expression. Alondra’s hollering from Astra’s shoulders, waving voraciously until she has your attention—she had the largest shell you’ve ever seen. Its polished appearance lets you know someone must have picked it up from a gift shop and let her believe it Poseidon’s gift.

“I lied,” Catherine says, and you turn quickly and your breathing stops, she looks serious—that empty beer bottle between her hands. “I remember exactly what Kara had said leading up to the argument—she wanted to tell you the truth about some things. I said it wasn’t time—that it wasn’t a good idea. She disagreed and one thing led to another and—she left it up to me. She and Clark both agreed.” Catherine would make a lovely protagonist—it’s the pensive look to her when she’s considering something, the expressive tilt of her shoulders.

“And what’s the truth?” You feel like you’re stepping into the dark far too willingly.

“You love your grandchildren—and you love me.” One moment, two moments. “You’ll stick around for the explanation? No matter what you think. You love me enough for that, right?” She’s fourteen again and asking you about love—about silent tears and cold hallways. About drinks in the afternoon and moves across the country. You don’t think you could have loved her enough then—you _didn’t_ —because you loved a dead man in the ground too much, and hardly had anything left after.

But now?

“Yes.” Now you can. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Ally.” She doesn’t yell, doesn’t raise her voice—but Alondra’s leaning forward on her great-aunt’s shoulders in interest. Pinching your brow as Catherine breaths deep and smiles. “Want to play Peter Pan?”

* * *

Oh. They fly.


	71. snap shot 71. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [canon/38]

**SNAP SHOT (CLARK KENT)**. Human is a frame of mind for you. It's got nothing to do with genetics, or dead planets, or superhuman abilities. Being human is how you carry yourself because you've never known any other way. Your mother used to call you special, and when you'd been young you assumed she meant it like all other mothers. You were special to 'her'; but that wasn't the case, not entirely at least.

* * *

There’s an old tree you used to climb as a kid—it was out back behind the barn your father had decided to fix mid-way through your teens, set in the middle of a field that could have been crops if its roots didn’t wind and tear through the soil. It was the largest tree in sight—his sight, not yours—and your father had never quite felt right tearing it down; he’d tried planting around it, but the soil was too dry for what corn, or carrots, or even gourds needed. He’d scratch at his head underneath the John Deer trucker’s hat that was his favorite, trying to solve a problem with everything but the easiest solution.

“Just tear up the tree,” you’d said when you were fifteen and just far enough from childhood to forget how much you used to love playing on that tree—it was an inconvenience now, tall and in the way.

“Clark,” your father had said with all that sternness you’d come to expect. “You can’t just tear up everything you think is in the way. You ever think it’s there for a reason?”

At the time you’d figured it was just there to waste your Saturday afternoon’s trying to come up with creative ways to get water around the roots and to the crops, or to drive into town and pick up more mulch, or more solutions.

Eventually your father had given up and conceded to the tree, happier about it than you’d have expected, but it had all faded to the background.

You remember how it had been struck through with lightening one summer—the flash and crack of the storm bright against the shivering windows of the second storey—you’d pulled back the curtains and seen the bright crisp of smoldering ambers. Raincoat pulled up around her neck, hood drawn low, you’d slogged through the mud and rain only to simply stand there.

The trunk had split, charred through at the middle, and burning bright despite the hard rain pouring down—it was beautiful, that old tree, even with its leaving curling as they flicked off as little charred burning notes. It wasn’t until the rain tired and the flames wore themselves away that you realized tenacity isn’t necessarily a human trait. That tree was holding firm to something—life, placement, _something_ —because even split through and half dead it flourished.

That summer it bloomed flowers for the first time you could remember.

“Some things bloom in hardship,” your mother had said while pitting peaches in the kitchen sink, “they’re more beautiful because of their scars.”

* * *

She’s leaning elbows on your mother’s fence.

When you see her you forget that the screen door slams if you don’t catch it—the brittle metal crashing against the frame and cracking through the quiet. You flinch—she doesn’t. You feel like you should be in your suit—it doesn’t feel right to meet her as Clark Kent. Feels like a secret you’re supposed to keep, and you don’t know why that is—she has your cousin’s face. From the point of her chin, to the blue of her eyes. There’s differences, more than you thought there would be, but—you shake away the thought.

“This is a surprise,” smile, you still aren’t sure if it’s a _good_ surprise. “I didn’t know J’onn was letting you leave the DEO.” He wasn’t supposed to—that was part of the agreement that was keeping you out of National City’s clandestine organization’s business. That this very familiar stranger was to stay under quarantine—away from humanity and any destruction an unstable Kryptonian can cause.

“ _Letting me_ isn’t probably the right way to put it.” She responds breezily, watching you with her own smile—it’s your cousin’s lopsided one. The one that just makes people _give_ just a little more than they typically would when something was asked of them. “ _Unable to stop me_ would be closer to the truth.” It isn’t arrogance—not really, and that throws you. Because statements like that aren’t meant to sound— _weary_. Like she’s tired of being something—some _one_ —that’s _unable to be stopped_.

“Are you something we should be stopping?”

She smiles, and it’s sad.

“Probably,” followed by the loosest shrug, leaning forward on her toes, putting more weight on the fence. “Did Martha make peach tarts?” The conversation shift throws you, and you can’t help how you reach down to touch the satchel at your side—filled to the brim with Tupperware containers full of those very tarts.

“Yeah,” drawling slowly while walking away from the house and toward her—you can’t think _Kara_ even if that is her name.

“I used to bring you here just for those tarts, she’d put you up on the cabinet and tug this stupid little chef’s hat on your head. You loved it.” Her hands are moving through the air—a little choppy, foreign, and it’s like she notices because after a moment she clasps them together to prevent further movement. Clearing her throat, she caves a little in the shoulders—there’s nothing but an abstract pang in your chest when you watch them curl. “You can stop waiting for the other shoe to fall, Kal El. I’m not—I’m not dangerous. Not to you, or—I don’t know—humanity.”

“Then who are you dangerous to?”

“Myself, probably.” She says it like it’s a given, like there’s no other possible answer. You really look at her—she’s taller than your cousin, sharper somehow, but you can’t pin it down because you realize how very little you can catalog about Kara. She’s family—she’s your somehow older yet younger cousin that tried to explain things to you even when she’d been impossibly young and didn’t even speak English. There was always an _oldness_ about her, but it washed away the longer she spent with the Danvers.

This person—this _version_ of her—never lost that oldness.

She reminds you of the tree out behind the barn.

“I’m taking you back to the DEO,” you decide, she’s dangerous—even if you can’t exactly decide why. It’s the flinty sharpness that curves her cheeks and leaks into the blue of her eyes. “You can’t be out and about, it’s not safe for anyone.”

“So far,” she leans away from the fence, in that awkward way that’s all Kara—limbs all accounted for, but elbows out wide and toes curled up. “All I’ve done is a bit of sightseeing.” Her hands sit on top of the fence post and she rounds it—wearing a hideous mustard-yellow shirt about the Grand Canyon, it’s too-big and slightly damp with jeans that squelch a little when she walks—the denim soaked through. There’s a black mesh hat on her head, the white front proclaiming that it’s from _Paris France_ , and a pair of Mickey Mouse sunglasses tucked into the collar of her shirt—ridiculous little black ears on the edge of either lens.

“Alex knows where I am, she makes me text her constantly.” She jiggles a flip phone—easily from the turn of the century—that she pulls from her front pocket.

“I should’ve known.” Your cousin makes people lax, makes them silly and trusting, even when they should be alert. This woman has parts of your cousin’s face—the parts that make it so easy to love her, and care for her at a glance. Alex is hurting now, she’s grasping at corners and edges, and she’s compromising everything because of sad blue eyes and dopey smile.

But this isn’t Kara.

“We’re going back now, I’ll drop you off myself if I have to.” They’re supposed to be trying to find a way to get Kara home—you’ve been bulleting from coast to coast to keep National City’s crime down. Doubling down in Kara’s absence, and even for _you_ it’s a tiring affair—J’onn’d been rather insistent that it wasn’t necessary, and you’ve seen _Supergirl_ flying out and about saving the day; but it isn’t the same.

Not to you.

Scuffing a shoe she leans back on the fence, closer now so that you can see barest scrap of the brittle wings of her collarbones. She’s thin—a very hard feat for a Kryptonian. So much stays the same, even when everything human says there should be change. You see the cords of muscle in her arms, the hints of it when her damp clothes cling and shift—but she’s scrappy and sharp everywhere you’re cousin is curved and smooth.

“You’re pretty good at that, I guess.”

Frowning, you stop yourself from crossing your arms. “What?”

“Dropping me off with Alex.”

You don’t understand what she means, and it must show on your face because she’s squaring those shoulders that _look_ breakable, even if you’re positive they’re anything but.

“I learned a bit about this Earth while I was _asked_ to stay at the DEO.” Maybe her eyes are darker, though that could be the encroaching storm caught in the blue. They’re like windows that have had the curtains drawn closed over them. “Just to see what’s changed, you know? So much is the same—it’s really kind of creepy—but there’s pretty big differences too.”

Pause.

“Like how you dropped my counterpart off with the Danvers the moment she landed.”

You weren’t—expecting this. She’s looking at you like she doesn’t know you and even though that’s _true_ —it hurts. Because you see how her face shifts almost imperceptibly when she talks about Alex, or heck—even sightseeing. The slightest twitch of her lips that would move the loose smile to something warmer and brighter—something for someone she loves.

But she watches you with a stormy consideration that raises your hackles—you’re tense, and you try not to be, because this woman’s just sad, and so far from home, with her borrowed face and Krypton blue eyes. You want to make her _understand_ , and it’s the strangest thing—you feel young and misplaced, even though _you’re_ home. On the very lawn you played on as a child.

“It’s what was best.” You’d been twenty-four and freshly graduated, you’d taken on the mantle of Earth’s protector and you didn’t—you could’ve have looked after her.

“For who?” Asked idly while shoving both hands into her front pockets.

“For everyone.” Twelve years later, you won’t let some _visitor_ judge how you looked after your family. “I was only twenty-four, what was I supposed to do with a pre-teen alien?”

“You say alien,” she starts, “like you aren’t one.”

You don’t know what to _say_.

“I guess in your mind, you aren’t.”

She’s swaying and shifting, rocking back onto her heels in such a way that’s physically impossible for anyone with even the slightest necessary relationship with gravity. This stranger ambles through the laws of physics like they’re something easy to forget—pivoting and lifting herself so that she might sit on the top rail of the driveway fence. She doesn’t jump, or hoist, or push—no, she simply forgets about gravity and drifts upward.

As easy as you would take a step.

“Do you know when I feel most at home?” She asks while leaning forward, the heels of her bright white Adidas balanced on the rail while lean presses elbows to her knees. The porch lights tangle through her hair, spill into her eyes—she’s a story being written right in front of you. The words pouring into each and every one of her grooves—spilling into cracks and tumbling into fissures. You _know_ words can’t fix things, you know they don’t have the power you sometimes imagine they do.

And right now, you have none—shaking your head, she smiles.

It’s almost Kara’s smile— _almost_ —but it’s the smile that says _why can’t I save everyone_. You know the smile intimately because you see it on your face some nights—when the soot has been wiped away and the sounds settle.

“When I blow out my powers. There’s this—this _fizzle_ and pop, and then. They’re just gone.” Her hands spread on her knees, fingers curling like she can’t help it. “I feel _normal_.”

You smile, because _this_ you understand. It’s the afternoons you go to the park and feel the sun like everyone else—just warm, just bright. “You feel human.” You feel _normal_.

But she’s frowning, the deep curve of a frown that filters onto her face before she can scuttle it back to something less harsh, something disappointed and sad. “No,” she whispers, softer than soft, “no, no.”

One moment, two moments.

“I don’t feel human, I’ll never feel human—because I’m not, and I never will be. I’m Kryptonian—I’m an Argoer. For a little while I’m not who I am on Earth. I’m just—I’m me.” She’s shrugging, that hapless way that’s all your cousin—she’s reaching up to adjust glasses that aren’t there. “I had to find that out alone. Bleeding, and hurting, and—and realizing that that is as close as I’ll ever be to home.” You’re hollowed out—like pieces of you have been scraped away when you weren’t looking, leaving you with this absentness inside that’s wrong. Somehow new and old both.

“I didn’t—,” _know that_ , seems like a bad way to end that. Because—because—you’ve had twelve years with Kara, distant years, but real ones. And this stranger—

“And she found it out alone too—your cousin, my—she’s not even anything to me, I guess.” She laughs—no, she’s crying. There’s tumbling down her cheeks without any fanfare, bright and dripping off her chin. “Because what would you have done with a pre-teen alien?” She’s scrubbing at her cheeks with the back of her wrist, wiping at them aggressively. She’s sniffling and clearing her throat and you’re walking forward—snared by her gravitational pull.

“Here.” Extending your handkerchief that you’d gotten into the habit of carrying when you were a teenager—your father always had one, and you always wanted to be your father. She blinks through the wet until she can see you clearly—hand shaking slightly as she grabs the cloth, looping it over a narrow finger before pressing it to her eyes. She’s breathing deeply, sucking in air and holding it inside.

You wonder about the absentness inside her—if the air helps at all.

“You raised him—the other Clark.”

She doesn’t get a chance to answer, because a lot happens in almost no time at all.

There’s a crackle and the unhinging warble of air being puckered and tossed away—all the sound around you vanishes. Even the distant crack of thunder states away. The night brightens and splashes white-blue against everything—energy is whirling and growling and stretching out. It looks like—a portal. Unstable and viciously consuming. You’re squaring up and looping your satchel from over your head. There’s only milliseconds before the entire phenomenon is over—it’s over, and leaving behind two people.

One’s tallish and wearing a unzipped hooded sweatshirt, he’s shaking his head—probably trying to shake away the same black dots littering the corners of your vision. The other man is shorter with dark hair—he’s plucking something from over his eyes. They’re both facing away from you, frowning at the surroundings like they aren’t sure where they are.

“This doesn’t look—right.” The taller man suggests with a nervous certainty—itching the back of his neck.

“We’re in the right place,” the other assures.

Your not-cousin is sliding bonelessly from where she’s perched on the fence—she’s stealthy and makes no noise. Everything thrashes and spills, but she’s eerily still. Walking until she’s standing behind you, there’s the widest smile you’ve seen yet—all white teeth, and a little bit of gum. Like she can’t help herself—like so much good is spilling from her pores.

“Barry.” She breathes, crying again, but the choked name is filled with joy.

The taller one—Barry, probably—spins around to face you and he’s smiling. Bright eyes, and a kind face. His hands can’t seem to help moving while he opens his arms to embrace the body lunging at him. She hugs him with enough strength that he winces.

“It’s good to see you too, Kara Danvers!” He’s all happiness, but not-Kara’s tensing and pulling away.

One moment, two moments. And his face splits into realization—he’s looking her over, from head to toe, and his hands on her shoulders clench just a little. “Not—Kara…Danvers.” He says haltingly, “Kara Callaghan.”

Looking at his companion, he’s unsure, “This just got more complicated, Cisco.”

“How can traveling dimensions to get an alien get more complicated?” Cisco says with raised brows and a very determined scowl.

Barry looks back at your not-cousin. “This is the wrong alien.”


	72. snap shot 72. ( interlude )

**SNAP SHOT (MAX)**. _Everyone's the protagonist of their own story. They're the knight, or the prince, or the chosen one. Every decision they make shapes the world around them, regardless of what's happening in other people's stories. But, when does the hero of one story, become the villain of another?_ | **Prompt** : kasadilla11, anonymous.

* * *

You’re eleven when your mother’s diagnosed with cancer.

But you’re thirteen when you find out. It’s been you and her since your father walked out on you when you were ten—lifted his golf clubs up onto his shoulder and just strolled into the afternoon. Your mother’s father invented the magnetic strip on the back of credit cards—years into his march to death at IBM—and when he passed she’d inherited the wealth of a man who loved numbers more than people. Algorithms and annotations holding his attention more than any banal conversation could—and so the Parry name wandered off into obscurity—not that it was particularly known in the first place.

You’re father—Maxwell Lorde, III—was a poor man’s con-artist; he ambled into your mother’s life one day in college and never wandered out of it until he had his fill of playing family with people he’d only ever see as marks. You _idolized_ him and when he left you blame your mother—you sneer and scream and curse her for your father never coming home. _She_ was the reason he’s gone, _she’s_ what was wrong with everything. Problems become so much easier when there’s someone responsible—someone who will shoulder the hurt and take the blame because it’s so much easier than a little boy’s heartbreak.

By thirteen you know that; you know that she keeps everything bottled and broken inside because she loves you more than anything.

You’ll grow up and wish you had those three years back with her—you’ll wish you’d talked over dinner, instead of ignoring her baleful looks. You’ll wish you’d noticed that she got tired quicker, and that her skin was pale and waxy. You’ll wish you’d asked why she had doctors’ appointments so often—and where she went all those other afternoons you spent angry that a small useless man decided he didn’t want anything to do with you.

“How was school today?” She asked every night at dinner, her face drawn into a wan smile—her fingers shaking and making the tongs of the fork in her hand rattle against the edge of her plate.

“Okay,” you say every night, not even looking up from your food—sullen and angry still. A little boy who doesn’t grow up because no one made you—because you didn’t want to do it on your own. You wonder—years later—if you would have been angry until you were old and gray if everything hadn’t crumbled exactly when it did. If you didn’t flounder and hurt, and realize just how horrible truths are if you don’t want to see them in time.

“Your spring concert’s this week, are you excited?” You’d started playing flute in fourth grade because you mother was an accomplished flutist—she’d gone to college for musical theory, and she’d had a love affair with music since she was a girl. As a little boy you’d cherished the afternoons spent listening to her strumming on a guitar, or playing something soft and whimsical on the flute—so when your school asked you to pick an instrument, you’d really only had one in mind.

But at this point you’re twelve and angry, and you hurt her in ways that are quieter than a curse or a scream. More silent than a slammed door.

“I quit,” you say with all the dull vitriol afforded to spoiled young boys that run wild with self-important anger. “The flute’s stupid.” You don’t mean it, you’ll never mean it—the well-loved instrument is tucked below your bed. You’d considered throwing it out in the garbage this morning—watching the truck roll through the cul-de-sac with the case warm between your palms—but you’d been unable to do it. Unable to truly cut this tether that strings through your heart—right to your mother.

.

You’re thirteen when your careless aunt tucks you into a suit.

“Stand up straight, Maxi.” She sighs, not really careful when she tugs at the lapels of your suit jacket. It’s a little small—a few years old—and the pale gray of your socks is obvious from where the pant legs stop inches above your polished black shoes. It’s tight across your shoulders, and snug at your chest—but you remember how you mother had chucked your chin and smiled when she’d picked it out. _You look so handsome, Max._

You might’ve looked handsome then, but you look lost and ridiculous now. Your cheeks blotchy and your head lopsided and buzzed—you’d asked your aunt to bring you to get a haircut, because you knew your mother didn’t like when your hair got shaggy and long. When it hung in your eyes—and as the spiteful boy you’d been, you’d refused to get a haircut for far too long. But instead of taking you to the salon in town that knows you by name—she got the clippers from the upstairs bathroom and did it herself.

“I am,” you huff, frowning at her.

She scowls, standing up and brushes out the imaginary wrinkles in her black, black dress. “If you’re going to be that way,” turning away from you, she’s pulling out a compact and fixing her red, red lipstick. “I have enough to worry about without you pouting.”

You clench your fists—grind your teeth.

Until you remember your mother would tap your jaw with her finger and smile away your anger—she’d rub your back and ask you what was the matter. Ask you what she could do.

Even when you’d been terrible and angry, she’d still care for you—still love you. And like the selfish boy you’d been, you accepted it—conditional love.

.

You’re thirteen when you write her eulogy.

You aunt—you mother’s very young sister—wanted to leave it up to the priest’s discretion. Let him pick the verse, and the sentiment—whatever he thought was appropriate. She’d shot through the arrangements without any consideration—fifteen years your mother’s junior and never even raised in the same house, it’s _wrong_ that she’s responsible for your mother’s funeral. That she picks lilies even though your mother hated them—and that she picked the first few pictures of you mother she could find.

The recent ones where she’s pale, and sad, and dying—even if you hadn’t known.

You sob into the frozen dinner she slaps still cold onto the table while talking on the landline with someone who doesn’t _matter_. Because—because—

Your mother’s dead and you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

You didn’t get to say _I love you_ , or _I’ll miss you_.

She’d gone to an appointment—a job for some large movie production looking for talented musicians for their soundtrack. She’d gotten into a town car at noon, and never made it—you’d only known because the director called the house asking about her whereabouts. Asking where she was.

She was dying—in some National City hospital across town.

“I want to say something,” you tell the priest, still wet cheeked and guilty. But _firm_. “I want to say goodbye.”

“Oh, son,” the collared man said with professional condolence. “It’s never goodbye—she’ll always be with you.”

This isn’t the time to tell him you’re not perfectly on board with the whole organized religion thing—that you’re probably leaning the opposite direction, but your mother went to church every Sunday, and some Wednesdays. And you were doing this for her—even if everyone else acted like it was for them.

But there’s no way to say that—especially as you start crying again.

So you just say, “I want to say something.”

.

The church’s window throw colors across the faces of relatives you don’t know on sight.

When you reach the podium you realize you can’t utter a single word.

Stuck in silence.

.

You can’t find your flute—so at her graveside, you play hers.

* * *

You’re fifteen—maybe fourteen—when you realize tragedy doesn’t always bring people together.

Your aunt—only six years your senior—doesn’t much care for a nephew who suddenly finds himself an orphan. She’d been young once and liked the idea of being needed—liked that she was asked—but she’s in college and doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to care for a devastated boy that’s just as angry as he is sad.

So when she stops in—once every few weeks—she hugs you in the doorway, or doesn’t even notice that you’re not home for days.

“You’re fine,” she says absently, chewing on the end of her cigarette, the filter moist and cracking. “You have this whole house to yourself. Stop bitching.”

 _This whole house_. Six bedrooms, seven and a half baths—vaulted ceilings that your grandfather had apparently liked because when he shouted it would bounce back. But they’re all _empty_. Filled with things that you don’t want, bought by people who are _dead_.

.

When you can’t sleep—which is almost every night—you find yourself in your mother’s music room.

The walls made in such a way that sound muffles, and you can pretend that you don’t hear people because of the insulation.

Not because there isn’t actually anyone there.

.

One of your classmates suggests you throw a party because no one’s home—he’s a wet-napkin, and you fucking hate him, but you’ve been _friends_ since third grade and isn’t that the point of school? Spending eight hours with idiots you hate.

“It’ll be rad,” he grins, the bread crumbs from his mozzarella stick stuck between his teeth.

“Just what I need,” you grouse, pushing your soggy fries around your Styrofoam plate. “A bunch of idiots in my house.”

“Opposed to just one idiot?” The girl you like—Katie—says with a wily grin.

.

The party’s a success—if successes can be measured by broken banisters and kegs of beer. You’re a freshman but there’s more upper classmen in your in-ground pool than you know what to do with.

“Chill the fuck out, Maxi.” One senior says while shoving a cigarette at you. It’s gross—you can only remember how your aunt’s young knuckles are ashy, and her nails yellowing when she forgets to put on polish.

But the house isn’t _empty_ anymore—there’s laughter, and lights, and _noise_.

Inhaling deeply, you can’t suppress a racking cough. “Don’t call me Maxi.”

.

You have a party every weekend—sometimes even in the middle of the week.

Surrounding yourself with fair-weather friends that had habits worse than nicotine smoke and cheap beer. It’s powder, and rolled hundreds—it’s needles and liquid fire. You too young to feel so old, but when the heat spills through you the cold it makes you feel can’t be taken away. It’s inside you. Your teeth ache, and your bones chirp—and maybe you’re just the wrong person to be listening—but you can’t hear whatever they’re saying.

All you can remember is how your mother had looked so, so waxy—so sad, and pale, and tired—how you never noticed.

It seems only right that you can’t spot the red flags when you look in the mirror in the morning—when you blink away the crust from the edge of your eyes and watch your pupils sluggishly contract. Impossible disks of black shrinking moment to moment until you’re all blue, blue eyes and red, red whites. There’s shaving cream on your jaw even if you don’t really need it yet

“Stand up straight, Maxi,” you say to yourself while smudging shaving cream across the mirror until you can’t see yourself.

You like it better like that. Mirrors are troublesome liars.

* * *

You’re seventeen—almost eighteen—the first time you get arrested.

The cuffs are a little tight and your arms are locked behind your back, so when the clot in your left nostril ruptures and blood pours out of your nose and over your lips, you’re forced to wipe it off on your shoulder. A white shirt that’s more red than anything now—having bled all over yourself, not to mention spattered with the blood belonging to the three college kids you’d gotten into an _altercation_ with. The hard side of National City is all flickering street lights and sour smelling pavement. It’s the kind of place that so much goes unnoticed that you can’t even believe you’ve managed to get caught.

“A trust fund baby like you probably shouldn’t stray this far south,” the officer leaning against the side of his squad car rumbles, smirking all the while.

“And a community college dropout like you shouldn’t make sweeping generalizations.” You spit—no, literally, you spit. It is pink with blood, and you swear one of your teeth has come loose. “Or does NCPD not even require college credits?” You ache—which you’re surprised to be able to feel in spite of the alcohol raging through your system—you’re eight kinds of drunk, and five kinds of pained.

“Shut the fuck up, smart ass,” you’re smacked in the back of the head, as they gather and confer—the red, white, and blue splashing across every surface is nauseating, and you think you might have a concussion. Everything starbursts and dazzles and it’s actually kind of pretty. Swaying in place you blink rapidly and shake your head—but that just makes the black dots swarm at the edges of your vision. You feel like you can _touch_ time, like it warbles on past your eyes one by marching one— _the ants go marching one by one, hurrah._

 It’s absurd, and crazy—but you _laugh_ , and can’t _stop_. There’s tears in your eyes, and you think you might throw up—the laughter isn’t helping you, it’s making it _worse_ , but this is what’s happened to you. You’re going to squander the scholarship you earned, and tarnish the name that isn’t yours—all because you were some sad kid with a dead mom that decided he’d make it go away with liquid courage and synthetic drugs made in a basement.

One of the officers if hauling you up by your collar, the red, red fabric squelches and you grin up at him—his face is wavering like he’s under water, but the mustache on his lip chitters like a cheeky caterpillar. You reach up a hand to touch it when he rears back a hand like he’s going to slap you again—you can only blink sluggishly.

“Knock it off!”

A sharp voice cracks through the black night—through the red, white and blue—and you topple to the side because the hand in you collar has released you, and let you slump boneless and limp to the ground. You cheek protests the treatment—there’s a particularly large piece of gravel wedged very close to your eye socket—but you don’t have much in you to get up.

“This one isn’t even one of yours,” the mustached officer scowls, arms crossing—he looks very well colored in the red light, but washed out and less in the white and blue.

“Don’t you test me, boy. Your mother still plays bridge at the community center. Would hate to have a talk with her.” You can’t see whoever it is, because there’s a brick of darkness spilling over you. “You’re going to take that boy in properly, and book him as you ought—which means taking him to the hospital for that knock to the head he’s had.” Hands are on you again, but they’re gentler—even if they’re still stern—and you’re pushed into the back seat of the squad car.

“Don’t know who you think you are, old timer.” The mustache’s partner sneers while stepping forward, toward the voice—but his partner holds him back with a hand to the chest.

“Pick your fights, man. This one ain’t worth it. Let’m have the trust fund baby.”

.

You spend the night at National City General Hospital.

And the next three days in lock up, waiting for your ridiculously young aunt to fly back into town, where she was supposed to be the whole time.

 _Legally speaking_.

.

You get a year probation, and two hundred hours community service.

.

His name’s Mister Callaghan, and apparently he’s a big deal in the Southern Court District of National City. Your aunt hires a lawyer with one call, and then books a flight to Cancun with the next. She’s gone before the sentence is even offered.

“The order’s come in,” the old man’s gruff in a way that old men tend to be—watching you through thick glasses and wearing sweaters that really shouldn’t be seen in the light of day. “Boxes are in the bay out back, and don’t let me catch you in the basement.” He didn’t have many requirements of you when you showed up for community service—only one rule. Don’t go in the basement. You wonder what’s down there often enough—your own basement had been a make shift chemist set that you’d stitched together with elbow grease and a little know how.

Breaking down compounds of every day household chemical to derive hallucinogenic properties wasn’t the hardest thing you’ve ever picked up as a hobby.

.

“Nasty habit,” Mister Callaghan says with all the preamble of a D.A.R.E. commercial. _This is your brain on drugs_. But it’s just a cigarette, and your hands shake, and you don’t want to think about what your body really wants—apparently your basement experiment had hooks you really couldn’t appreciate until you swore it off. For a while, before dipping your toes again—you’re clean now for twenty six days.

You’re eighteen, and your grandfather’s magnetic strip money makes your pockets feel heavy.

You’re eighteen and you’ve lost your scholarship to MIT because of your drug conviction.

You’re eighteen and one-hundred and ninety-nine hours into your community sentence term.

You’re eighteen and you suddenly don’t know what to do with your life.

“Not as nasty as my other habits,” you say, lifting the cigarette. It’s pouring outside, which means you don’t stray further than the small awning that covers the two feet in front of the back door.

“Everything’s mild in comparison to something, boy.”

“Did you read that in a fortune cookie, or did you come up with it yourself?”

“Just common sense,” you leave the cigarette at your side, but your breath still fogs and spills away frosty and opaque. It’s the strangest thing for late July. “You’re almost finished with your hours. I’ll sign your requirements met sheet at the end of your shift.” You nod, and shrug—because that’s what people expect from you, the aloof disinterest that presses up through your chest. That keeps you from the hurt, from the pain—from the shake, and rattle, and croon in your heart.

“You going to school in the fall?”

You laugh, because he’d been at your hearing—when he’d agreed to sponsor your community service. He’d seen the letter sitting on your lawyer’s desk for all to fucking see—MIT didn’t want you anymore. Didn’t want some chem-wizard with a penchant for possession with intent to sell; didn’t matter about SAT scores and aptitude tests. Didn’t matter that you wasted seventy dollars every year to keep your Mensa membership—these things mean little when it comes to reputation.

Whatever the fuck that is.

“You know I’m not,” because you wallowed in the beginning, when the shaking was its worst. “They want nothing to do with a junkie.”

“You think I’d let a junkie mind my store? You’ve another thing coming, kid, if you’d think so.”

.

When he’s handing you your requirements met form, there’s an application on top.

“Might not be the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” it’s for National City University. “But they’ve got a pretty decent science department.”

.

It takes you three weeks to apply.

You’re one day before the last deadline.

.

It isn’t until half-way through your first semester that you find out what’s in the basement—Mister Callaghan’s asked you to bring down a ridiculous amount of blankets—all color and size, and he warns you to be quick about it. What doesn’t make sense is the inordinately large bag of chocolates on the top.

You don’t need the money—but your hands shake less at the Bruised Apple.

You don’t expect to see anyone when you reach the foot of the stairs.

“Hey,” you say, surprised.

She frowns, then smiles. “Hey.”

.

She’s fourteen, accented, and thinks you’re an idiot—she doesn’t _say it_ , but you get the implications.

No one’s made you feel stupid while being such a delight.

Actually, no one’s made you feel stupid in general. Joy of a high IQ and arrogance, you guess.

The skirt and shirt combination must mean she goes to Yeux Clairs Academy. You want to think it’s something weird and nefarious—but she’s happy, from what you can tell, and the basement looks like a home. A messy one, but so much nicer than your empty, empty house.

“You did it all wrong,” she’s saying, perched on the edge of the sink. Wide smile, bright eyes. “You filtered too early, the chemical composites didn’t manifest. Your crystals must’ve been unfortunate.”

You don’t think a fourteen year old should know how to make Methamphetamine.

“No one’s complained,” you say.

She smiles—she’s a sweet kid, “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it right.”

* * *

You’re twenty and Marion Washington is the love of your life.

But, you’re pretty sure she hates each and every one of your molecules.

Maybe she just doesn’t like carbon based lifeforms? You’d be okay with that kind of generalized hate.

.

“You should smile,” you say to Marion while walking backwards through the courtyard, trying to ignore the scowling blonde at her side—if you had a nemesis, it would be Cat fucking Grant. She’s the smallest thing on campus, but that doesn’t seem to stop her in even a single way. Marion just rolls her eyes at you, making special notice of your preciously popped collar and mid-winter cargo shorts.

She’s opening her mouth to answer, but you hit something and trip—falling up and over the planter you’d hit. Landing flat on your back, the wind’s knocked out of you and when you’re trying to suck in air, Marion’s face appears above you.

“You should watch where you’re walking.”

Said with all the eye-rolling afforded to the people she thinks are stupid blowhards—you notice these things.

.

But she’s smiling when she says it.

.

“Oh,” it’s her—the girl from the Bruised Apple. Her sudden appearance makes Marion spring back from you—the sweet taste of her lips still on yours, and you wonder if yours taste just as good to her. Probably not. Basement Girl is tall now—thin and lithe—and she’s weighed down with a designer bag and an armful of textbooks. “Wow. Uh.” She’s adjusting thick glasses over her eyes, face pulling in a few different directions—shock, to uncertainty, to joy, and then settling on some impressive mixture of all three.

“We should leave.” She says softly to herself while turning, movement utterly silent, “ _Zrhueiao_ , we should—Ice cream! We should get ice cream! I’m hungry.”

“We _literally_ just ate, Kara. Like, you had three donuts on the walk from the restaurant to here.” You hear from down the hall and your heart plummets—Marion’s must as well, because she’s bolting out of the living room mouthing _sorry_ the same time you’re mouthing _chicken shit_ , before slipping into her bedroom—and inevitably out the old-fashioned fire escape tethered to the side of the building.

And that’s how Cat fucking Grant finds you standing by yourself in the living room of her dorm. Basement Girl—Kara, you know now—must be some kind of superhero in her free time because she’s on point. You’ve seen instantaneous chemical reactions slower than her.

“Max!” She exclaims with _joy_ , like you’re supposed to be here, and it’s the strangest thing because you’re smiling like maybe you are—in ways that have nothing to do with how Marion calls you sometimes when she feels that creeping _something_ that makes it hard for her to focus. When she lays on her bed, and you perch on her desk and go through her flashcards for some book about colored shrubs growing places, or something. In ways that don’t get acknowledged outside the four walls of her bedroom.

“Basement Girl!” You say, and she exhales like she’s afraid you might not’ve recognized her.

“Basement girl? What kind of Japanese dungeon porn name is that?” Cat fucking Grant says while eyeing you with displeasure. She’s intimidating, even when she only comes up to your chin, but especially when she’s slanting herself in front of Kara like you might do something _untoward_.

“Max works for Mister Callaghan in the summer.” Kara supplies, setting down the text books on the kitchen counter. The mention of the old man has the diminutive blonde softening, and you don’t think there’s a single person in National City that doesn’t low key love that Irish bookkeeper.

“ _You_ work for Mister Callaghan?” Cat’s skeptical, but she’s also loosening the line of her shoulders.

“I mean, yeah. I help around when I can,” you scoff, crossing your arms—catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, you try to subtly wipe off Marion’s lipstick on your neck.

“What a helpful fuck boy.” She drawls.

Grinning, “The helpfulest.”

Cat shoves you as she walks past, “that's not even a word, idiot.”

* * *

You’re twenty-three when you decide you’re going to change the world.

“Come on, Basement Girl!” You plead.

“Stop calling me that, Max, it makes people look at us weird.” Kara’s three (large) bites into her sandwich—half of it sweet pickles, the other half some kind of slathered chicken. She’s two years ahead of where she should be at nineteen—slaughtering classes with the single-minded focus you’re almost scared of. _Almost_. You’ve both orbited each other for years now, slinking in and out of each other’s lives in the strangest of ways—you’ve got the worst soft spot for the fairly tall blonde bullet that edges the corners of so much you do.

“Cal,” you concede to her point—for now. “I did _research_ , you know how much I hate admitting I don’t know something.”

“You’re a scientist, Max, that’s nothing _but_ research.”

“That’s different. Inventing something means I’m the first person to know it,” she’s shaking her head at you and downing an entire little carton of chocolate milk—you’re pretty sure that’s her sixth pint of milk, but you don’t point it out. You want her to agree after all.

Kara chews thoughtfully, and squints at you—there’s still so much you don’t know about Callaghan’s granddaughter. Still little comers that don’t make sense, even if you’re alright with that. She’s _good_ in the same way Mister Callaghan is, and you’re glad for it because the world needs more of that. That old man had changed your world, and you’ll always be thankful to him.

Kara may not sponsor community service hours—but give her a few years and you know she will—but you’ve caught her at enough of your fraternity’s parties to not be surprised when some frat boy gets a bloody nose and some shaking girl gets an escort home. Whenever you _do_ see her, you walk with her—hands in pockets, whistling under your breath.

“I don’t need you to walk her home,” she’d say, frowning at you while rubbing the scared nameless girl’s arm.

“I’m not walking _her_ home, though good on you for that. Dick deserved it.” You’d return, “I’m here to walk _you_ home, after you walk _her_ home. Unless you two live together, in which case we really need to spend more time together because lesbian love triangles are _totally_ my thing.”

And she’d smile—that wide one with a little gum. “You’re an idiot.”

“That I am, Basement Girl, that I am.”

But she’s looking at you now like she does sometimes when she doesn’t think you’re looking—like she’s not exactly sure what you’re looking for. What you want from her. And you wonder what she expects from herself. What broken things she keeps inside because you see it in the little cracks in her eyes—the same cracks your mother had, the same ones you see in the mirror. Small little fissures that do horrible things to a person.

“Why me?” She says finally, not putting her sandwich down, but lowering it.

You want to be flippant—you’re _good_ at flippant, the _best_ , but you see that desire for something in her. In the curve of her lip that’s not quite a smile, and the widening of her eyes that makes they so very blue. All those answers on the tip of your tongue slide right away—the _just causes_ and the _why nots_.

“You’re the smartest person I know, Cal. Fuck, and you know I don’t like admitting that out loud; even thinking it made me a little sad.” You grouse, and snatch a pickle from the middle of her horrible sandwich—there’s a bite mark out of it, but you shrug and toss it in your mouth. “I want to change the world, and I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want to do that with.”

Kara smiles, bashful is a way that’s endearing, in a way that makes you so glad she decided to see through your bullshit. One moment, two moments. “You did research?”

You grin. “Fuckloads.”

“What’re you thinking of name-wise?” She hasn’t said _yes_ yet, but this line of questioning is good. Very good.

“I’m open minded. Don’t most people just shove a name in there somewhere?” You realize with all your research you haven’t even thought about what it would be called. It slipped your mind entirely—and this was why you needed her. You missed something so simple, because you were too busy working through the details.

“Lorde Technologies?” She suggests.

“Or maybe Callaghan Inc.?” You rebuttal, something uncomfortable in your skin. “Lorde’s not a name I want people knowing. I only ever kept it because of my mom. My father—he wasn’t…” _A good person, worth knowing, the reason I lost so much time_ —you think all of these in an instant, and your heart trips and sinks, and you _aren’t_ about to cry, except you totally are.

“It might’ve been his name, but maybe you should make it yours? Make it a—I don’t—a big _eff you_ to him for being a jerkface.” She’s hot under the collar, and the way her face scrunches up makes you laugh.

“Jerkface? _Eff you_? Come on, Cal, you can say it—I won’t tell.”

Kara breaths deep—you can _see_ her channeling Cat fucking Grant. “Fuck you, to that—that—that _motherfucker_.”

One moment, two moments.

You’re smiling, and you wish you had it in you to care that you must look like a fucking idiot. Extending your hand across the table, she doesn’t even hesitate before clasping it. Her palm’s a little sticky from what looks like Thousand Island dressing, but you don’t even cringe.

“Lorde Technologies it is.”

* * *

You’re—no, you can’t measure life in years anymore. At least not yours—she’s _here_. Finally.

For the first time in years you’re hands are shaking—it has nothing to do with the worn down sobriety coin you keep in your pocket. You’d been a stupid boy for much longer than you’ll ever admit—replacing the drugs you craved with numbing alcohol, until something had to give—and you’d always assumed it would be something _other_ than you. You’re Maxwell Lorde—the fourth, and _best_ of your name—and you didn’t give for anything.

Except you did.

You gave to anger, and fear, and loneliness—all the hot and festering things that chew, and scratch, and ruin everything inside you. The things you _allowed_ to flourish, even if you’d been young, and stupid, and arrogant. And finally, when you’d given in—collapsed under the weight of what it was to be _you_ , Marion had caught you. Her hands soft, and gentle, and strong—she’s pushed your hair from your eyes and traced the bones in your cheeks until you could breathe properly.

“With me now, frat boy.” She had whispered softly, the copper of her eyes looking more like gem stones than anything else. Bright, and caught through with so much light, despite the darkness of that April night. _With me_ , she said—and she meant it. She went with you to your first meeting, she held your hand when you refused to talk—that first time, and the six after, until you’d finally stood up and found your way to the podium.

For the second time in your life you reached a podium and realized you couldn’t utter a single word.

Stuck in silence.

That is until Marion smiled at you from the back of the room, the colors of the church hall’s window splashed across her gorgeous face.

“I’m Max,” you said with a breath—hands shaking. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

That had been years ago now—years, and lifetimes, and mistakes, and promises in the past, and none of that matters because you’d do it all over a thousand and one times. You’d be stupid, and angry, and alone for whole lifetimes, if it would bring you to this exact moment. Holding your _daughter_ in your arms. She’s small, and delicate, and her little fingers twitch and curl up near her face—she hasn’t opened eyes, and you know from all your research that she should’ve already, but you don’t worry.

Your little girl is perfect.

“I’m going to build you a perfect world,” you whisper against the warm skin of her forehead—soft, and tasting vaguely like talcum powder, but you _love_ it. “I’ll be able to tell you that I love you from across the galaxy. You’ll never _not_ hear it.” You want to lock the door and keep all the bad out, keep all the bad away—but this precious little girl will have to live out there, she’ll have to grow into her own person, she’ll have to smile and laugh, she’ll also trip and fall.

But you’ll always be there to catch her.

But that’s whole lifetimes away.

“What’re you whispering over there, you megalomaniac?” Marion’s grinning from her fortress of pillows, the natural curls she’d finally allowed free spread out across her pillow. You hope your daughter has your wife’s gorgeous hair—her perfect eyes too—you wouldn’t mind if she didn’t look an _ounce_ like you if it meant she looked like Marion.

“The usual,” you reply, sweeping across the room in only two steps so that you can lay down beside her in the bed. Her dark skin’s flushed at the cheeks, and you can’t help pressing a kiss there. “How I’m going to change the world.”

Marion laughs, managing to jab a knuckle lightly into your side. “You couldn’t wait until she’s old enough to walk away like everyone else does when you get going?”

Could you wait? No, not even a moment.

.

Marion’s asleep when Kara comes by later that night, she’s quiet and closes the door before the hall light can slant across your sleeping wife’s face. Your daughter hasn’t left your arms since, she’s awake now—blue, blue eyes looking up at you, so bright in the smooth dark of her face. You want to build monuments, and skyscrapers, you want her to be able to touch the _sky_.

“Sorry it’s so late,” your best friend whispers, crouching down beside the lounge chair you’d settled in to let Marion sprawl. “Office is a bit insane without their fearless leader.” She’s running light fingertips over your daughter’s cheeks, tracing the curve with her knuckle before grinning up at you. “She’s gorgeous.”

“She is.” You hadn’t known what real pride is until now. “And I know the office is just fine because they have their actual fearless leader still there—you’re just missing your mouth piece.” You gesture toward yourself, and she giggles softly—you know Kara doesn’t like dawdling on the upper floors, doesn’t like actually working out of the ridiculously large office you’d forced her to have. She’s much more comfortable down in the labs—in the research and development centers—in the sites that the United States government drove her out to on tight-lipped contract.

“You’re going to actually take time off, right?” She asks, leaning back on her heels.

You’d gone back and forth on that since you’d learned Marion was pregnant—one week you’d take a few days, the next you’d work through them. Then you’d take a month off, and then you’d decided you’d let Marion have space. But now, you’ve settled your mind, and there’s not even an ounce of budge in your decision—though, you may have picked up some dramatics from Cat.

“I might never go back.”

Kara’s grinning—all squinted eyes and a little bit of gum. “You’re just the cutest, littlest Lorde.”

“Caroline.”

She looks up.

“We named her after—after my mother. Her name’s Caroline; Cara for short.” You’d spent night, and nights, and nights with baby books and name books—searching through pages for little words of wisdom that could make the jack rabbit in your chest calm down. But there’d been nothing— _Mackenzie? Abigail? Joanne? Christina?_ —not until Marion had been running her fingers through your hair one night. “What about Caroline?” And it had all made _sense_.

“I have to ask you something again, Basement Girl.” You haven’t called her that in years, both of you much preferring _Cal_ , but it feels right—Kara must agree because she has her hand on your knee, the other smoothing back dark thick strands of hair on your newborn daughter’s forehead— _Caroline’s_ forehead.

“Will you be her godmother?” You know Kara’d do right by Caroline—if anything happened to you, if anything happened to Marion—you know your daughter would grow up in a world of love. Kara _bleeds_ love like it’s something easy to have, easy to give—lord knows she’s been loving you for long enough to prove her point. "You'll protect her?"

She’s crying—you’re crying. What soft titans of industry the two of you are.

“Of course, Max, of course.”

* * *

You’re—you wish you could pin point the exact moment.

There had to be one—had to be some collection of seconds, and minutes, and hours that would make everything clearer, that would make this ridiculous equation make sense. Caroline had been _fine_ —she’d been happy, and healthy, and making life worth _everything_ , until she suddenly wasn’t. Until there weren’t advanced toddler classes, and Disney movie marathons—until Cat wasn’t napping against your side because her newborn and your three year old had both finally given up their need to be loud, and heard and felt.

You’d been surprised by somehow forming a unified front with your blonde nemesis—the media powerhouse had ambled through your mid-town high rise and demanded to know your secrets. You’d been a little concerned for her tired eyes and aggravated tension—but she wasn’t talking about things pending, or secret government contracts. No, she was talking about your daughter passed out on the living room carpet with her favorite bear and her thumb in her mouth—she _needed_ to know how to make Carter sleep without whiskey gums like he mother had employed.

You’d told her it was one part _Yo Gabba Gabba_ , and two parts _Dora! The Explorer_ ; but the secret was body heat. Children loved feeling secure—apparently parents do to, because you’d never had a more comfortable nap than passing out on the couch with your best friend’s not-wife—who is also your friend, though you both don’t like admitting that out loud.

Happy memories tainted because you can’t pin point _when_ you should have notice—what you could have done. So each and every one of them has become a piece of irrefutable evidence—smiles, and laughter, and quiet nights, and happy mornings.

“Hey Cara,” you whisper, stroking back hair from Caroline’s forehead—there’s a tube taped to her nostril, and she’s somehow pale despite the natural tone of her skin. “I brought you some of the cannoli cream from the bakery—not even in those stupid, ugly cones.” The nurses had let you store it in their fridge—though you know they didn’t have the heart to tell you little girls just out of surgery can’t have cannoli. “Miss Emily heard you weren’t feeling well, and made them especially for you.” The baker has always had a soft spot for your daughter— _everyone_ has a soft spot for Caroline.

You only get the _beep_ , _whirr_ of machinery in response. You’ve been surrounded by similar sounds your entire adult life—it has always been a comfort, you’ve always even preferred it to the silence that it replaces. But its delight has soured and decayed, turned to ash in your mouth, and poison in your ear until there’s nothing but a sickening sadness in your chest.

.

“ _You_ don’t get to tell me what is impossible!” The doctor’s trying to calm you down, trying to make you see _reason_ , like reason will _ever_ be the fact that your little girl is _dying_. That you can bring water to the third world, and cure disease, but all that doesn’t matter because there’s _nothing_ you can do.

“Mr. Lorde, please, I understand—.”

“Being _used_ to tell someone this doesn’t mean you understand.” You hiss, your jacket is over the back of your chair, your voice loud and your chest heaving with breaths. Marion’s still seated, hands in her lap and her chin dropped to rest slightly against her collar bones—she hasn’t said anything, hasn’t _moved_ , and you feel like you’re fighting a battle on two fronts. The worn down chip in your pocket feels heavy, and you can’t help shoving your hands into your pockets to rub your thumb over the ten year sobriety token.

“I don’t care if I have to tear the very foundation of DNA apart, chromosome by fucking chromosome” you hiss, hunching your shoulders and removing your hands, pushing them through your hair and taking a few steps back and away, turning around so that you can process—so you can derive meaning. _Weeks or months_ , he had said, not _years_ , not lifetimes—not forevers that will last the rest of _your_ life.

 _Rage_. It’s a growl somewhere low in your stomach, a pulse of fire in your esophagus rising, and spilling. The voice rattles against the edges of your mind like loose china in an earthquake, shivering and trembling and threatening to topple down. _Rage_. It whispers again, guttural and hard, blade edges at the backs of your eyes and poison spills under the soles of your feet—everything wrestles and burns, and your fingers clench into your hair. _Rage_. You can _taste_ the anger on the back of your tongue, teeth the sinister whispers on your teeth—numbing in its heat.

 _Aren’t you angry?_ The voice asks, chittering.

But you’re not _angry_ , not really—not…

You’re sad—no, devastated.

 _Click_.

You turn around to see that the doctor has sat down behind his desk, hands spread across his coffee stained desk blotter—and the chair that had held your wife is empty, and the office’s door has clicked closed.

.

“There was nothing left of a body,” the fire marshal says with soft, soft eyes and empathetic hand gestures.

.

Everything warbles and slants and pushes away from you. It’s a horrible feeling that you thought you wouldn’t remember, you thought it would somehow feel like a brand new decision—but all the struggle from lifetimes ago has poured down your throat with that first swig of whiskey. The first one was a mistake, the second a choice—and after that it was like tumbling down a hill of glass; momentum dragging you down through the hurt whether you wanted it or not.

“Hey baby,” you say into the baby monitor in your palm while sitting against the tub—all the lights turned off, all the electronics unplugged. You couldn’t stand the sound of active electricity right now—there’s singes on your knuckles from where you’d put your hand through the bedroom wall to tear at the cables beneath the plaster. You can’t _stand it_.

“I know it’s past your bedtime, and I should let you sleep.” Squeezing your eyes shut, you can pretend that there’s a little girl curled in her bed at the end of the hall—tired from one part _Yo Gabba Gabba_ , and two parts _Dora! The Explorer_. “I love you so much, baby girl. So, so much.” Lifting the whiskey to your lips, you can’t even feel your lips anymore—can’t feel the tangle, or burn.

You’re just—going through the motions.

* * *

You’re thirty-six, thirty-seven, or forty.

Depending on if you’re going by your birth-certificate, Wikipedia, or TMZ.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” You drawl, saddling up beside Cat fucking Grant—she’s dressed to kill and nursing her fourth or fifth martini of the night. You’ve done the requisite mingling with shareholders and members of the board, so you’d turned out onto the floor with the intent to amuse yourself for the night. The woman you’d come to the event with had long since dissolved into the faces of those just _existing_ around you, with no real grasp on your attention.

“This isn’t college, Max.” She returns, drinking a little before rotating her index finger in a little circle of faux-amusement. “You’re going ahead with the alien recognition scanner.”

No pulled punches—you like it.

“No _how’re you, Max_ , or _it’s been so long_?” You’re smiling and raise a finger to flag down the bartender for a drink—scotch, neat. “We used to be able to talk like friends, Cat. What happened?”

“You became a megalomaniac prick?” She suggests, eyebrow raised.

“I’ve always been megalomaniac prick,” you sooth, leaning against the bar at her side. You wonder if her hands shake too—if she has to lick her front teeth to feel them. “People have a right to know, Cat. I mean, wouldn’t _you_ have liked to know?” Smile, always smile. Cat turns to glare at you just as your drink arrives and you leave a generous tip in the jar.

“You treading on thin ice, Max. Thin fucking ice.” You like her best when she’s a little dangerous—it’s the glint in her eyes that says she’d tear you down before blinking, and it makes your heart race—it probably isn’t a good thing, a _sane_ thing, but you’re not much of either of those these days.

“It’s going to the floor next quarter,” the _business_ end of the whole thing had always been other people’s dominion, you were the charming sort that could _get_ money, but the day to day nonsense had never really interested you.

You’ve stopped playing with heart monitors, or hearing aids—stopped research on electric cars, or bullet trains. The market shifted drastically after Doomsday—after the world realized how dangerous it is to exist in a universe so much larger than they. Satellites, and missiles, and surveillance—Lorde Technologies was the spear head of those particular charges.

“We finally finished with all the lawyers a few months ago,” she’s saying, still glaring, but another martini has manifested and she’s turned to rest her hip against the bar. Slate gray—it looks so much like the dress she’d worn lifetimes ago when you’d been a fray boy in a bar, and her best friend was the love of your life.

“Congratulations.”

“Mm,” she hums, “last thing we really had to sort was Kara’s shares in Lorde Technologies.” Your heart doesn’t _stop,_ but there’s a moment you aren’t exactly sure what she’s about to say. You knew it was the legal splitting of the company—even a lot of your own idea in the beginning.

“She was majority shareholder, wasn’t she?” She asks, even though she knows the answer.

Frowning, “you know she was. Did she split her shares between the boys?”

Grinning, she sips her martini. “No, no—and I’ve my own conglomerate to look after. I don’t have time for yours.” Glass put down with a click of metal on marble. “They’re all Clark’s.” She throws over her shoulder as she turns to walk away.

“Oh? In that case,” you weren’t expecting that, but that's not always bad. “Maybe I’ll call for a demonstration of the scanner on the floor.”

.

Cat fucking Grant catches you in the corridor in the back—Kara’s old clearance badge dangling from her fingers. It’s just the two of you and there’s something clandestine about the silent stretch of hall between you. The oxblood of her dress brilliant against the sterile white of the walls, the tilt of her chin both considering and confrontational.

“Max,” she says, swinging the clearance badge around her finger once more, before clasping it in her palm. “I just want something very clear between us.”

Eyebrows raised, “what’s that?”

“You can be a xenophobic asshole all you’d like, you can wallow in your hateful misery. I don’t give a good goddamn.” _Click, click_ , you wonder how long she’s been wearing those heels—you wonder how long it’s been since you and Cat Grant were close enough that she didn’t mind being barefoot around you. Years now—since her not-wife killed your actual wife.

“But if you bring my kids into this, I’ll _ruin_ you.”

If you ever had a nemesis, it would be Cat _fucking_ Grant

* * *

 _Rage_.

You’re fifty-one when you get your best friend back. Or maybe she gets _you_ back.

“You’re supposed to be in another dimension,” you say.

“Max,” she’s covered in blood and there’s an eerie red glow on her right hand. _Rage_. “You need to come with me.”


	73. snap shot 73 ( 13, 29, 31, 44 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _She told you that it was impossible to know what to expect—that anything could be waiting for you. She looked at you like she didn’t understand why you were the one who had to do this—why you, and not her—but something in the rhythm of your heart must’ve betrayed you; your heart always was a little too rebellious. You’d been children when you said you’d love each other ‘until the stars go dark’, it’d been a cute little turn of phrase, but now—decades, and lifetimes, revelations later—it’s a truth you hold inside._

_“I love her,” you tell her, “in this life, and any other.” Until the stars go dark._

* * *

“There’s no way of telling how this will react with your—human physiology.”

You’ve never seen someone say _human_ with such uncertain disdain—like she doesn’t understand the word, but she somehow already loathes its meaning. She’s holding a nasty looking syringe, the fluid inside the clear cylinder viscous and black—split through with oily color. You’re standing in the living room of a tenement building in downtown—broken windows boarded over, walls with exposed wire and holes bigger than a double clasped fist. You’d walked past at least three different signs proclaiming this building an unstable, dangerous place—but you didn’t care.

Not in the slightest.

The woman has been particularly tight lipped—eyes dancing with a furious determination that was both startling and somehow comforting. You hadn’t been able to ask too many particulars, but all that alert weariness meant nothing in the face of _Kara needs you_. Your phone had been ringing constantly for the past ten minutes—Clark’s face popping up over and over as he tried to contact you. You’d sent him a text.

**I’m fine, go to Carter, heathen. I love you _._**

“How should we like it to react?” You ask while crossing your arms over your stomach. You feel cold, right down to your bones, but you can’t pull back or turn away—can’t be _reasonable_ and demand as you typically would. There’s only _Kara needs you_ in your blood and bones, below your skin and at your center.

She raises the syringe.

“The toxins of a fully matured Black Mercy—drained while it tethered itself to its current…victim.” She sounds so much like Kara did in the beginning, and you hadn’t realized how long it had been since her words looped and tilted with that bird’s call sweetness. “Injecting you will ensnare you in the Black Mercy’s hallucination—it will build a world you’d never wish to leave. And feed off that until you are dead.” That doesn’t sound—good. Doesn’t sound like anything you’d wish to partake in willingly.

“While this lesson in alien fuckery is all well and good,” you snap, chest tight and heart pounding. “Why do I care?”

She’s across the room—this nameless woman with familiar eyes and recognizable chin—and the half mangled door to the bedroom is pushed open without preamble.

You can _feel_ your heart on the back of your tongue, pounding away, drowning out everything in your ears—the sounds of National City warble away as you step through the doorway and you see her.

See Kara.

Set out on the floor flat on her back you can’t stop how to fall to your knees and then scramble to her side. Her hair’s singed, and shorter, and molten black at the roots—but it’s _her_. The dip to her nose you remember in dreams, and the perfect plump to her bottom lip you’d almost forgotten. Cheeks hollowed more than you remember—more than in pictures—which makes the apple of her cheeks desperately prominent. She looks malnourished and pale, waxy in a way that no sunlight causes after a long while.

“Kara,” you whisper, hands reaching without consideration to cup her face—

Her skins _cold_ to the touch.

It’s what makes you look down to the slate gray and black flight suit, to the metal shoulder guards and military insignia—to the massive curling creature tethered to her chest. It looked like a demonic bride’s bouquet—dark red flowers tinted black, with long crimson needles splitting the petals. Vines wrapped, and squeezing, and snared—you grip the closest one with the intent to rip it off, until a strong hand has you by the wrist, pulling you away.

“Don’t,” the woman says, her teeth grit. “If you try to remove it. It will kill her.”

Logically you should have assumed that—but logic has no place here, has no place in a world where _Kara needs you_.

“The Black Mercy has a strong hold on her. It has been feeding off her for almost a year—she’s firmly entrenched in its hallucinations.” Pressed lips, cracking knuckles—you feel how the bones in your wrist separate slightly with the pressure, loose and disjointed. But it doesn’t hurt, not as much as it should—and that’s the shock, you realize belatedly, your mind falling and fluttering, trying to hold onto anything properly. “I tried to get her out—to awaken her—but I couldn’t. She has to want to leave more than she wishes to stay.”

Something in the way she’s saying the words—the way they deepen and fill when you least expect it makes you ask. “Who are you to her?”

One moment, two moments. “Her mother was my sister,” inhalation, and a curling lift to her upper lip. “My twin sister.”

You’re not touching that with a ten foot pole—at least not yet—you need to focus on what’s important. Your cheeks are wet, and you must have been crying for a while because your shirt’s damp, and your nose is running. “That—that,” you wave vaguely in the needle’s direction. “That can save her?”

“If I inject you with the Black Mercy’s— _this_ Black Mercy’s toxins, it’ll pull you into her hallucination. There’s proper ways to do this, safer ways, but we don’t have the time, nor the luxury.”

“Why is time a problem now? You said she’s been like this for a year.” You’re an investigative journalist for Christ’s sake, gather the facts. Even if all you can really focus on is _Kara needs you_.

“In the phantom zone it was almost as if she was in stasis—the Mercy couldn’t drain her completely because time wasn’t passing.” _None_ of that makes sense—you don’t know what the phantom zone is, don’t know what she’s going on about time—but the urgency in this woman’s voice is enough to triple the beat of your heart. If possible. “She’s dying, Catherine Grant, and very quickly.”

_Dying_. This beautiful impossible girl has been dead in your mind for a decade, you’d buried an empty casket and filled the empty places inside you with temporary happiness. Conditional _fine-ness_. But none of that seems worth it anymore—none of that compares to the truth that’s being asked of you now. After years of feeling helpless with things no mere mortal could tilt in either direction—for good or bad—you’ve finally been given the chance to even out the scales.

“Go ahead,” you say while rolling up your sleeve and extending your arm.

And go ahead, she does.

She doesn’t warn you that it isn’t a small pinch, or a slight sting—no, it’s like your arm has caught fire and your blood has begun to boil. Everything inside you becomes a four alarm fire, and there’s nothing to contain the blaze. You seize, back arching like a drawn bow—you tumble to the ground beside Kara, gasping and choking on your own saliva. No, no, that’s not saliva—it’s blood. It bubbles and gurgles and spills out the side of your mouth until you roll onto your side and heave black fluid onto the floor.

It smells acrid and sour.

“The Mercy will try to fool you into staying; it will build you lives that are too good to be true. Bits and pieces of your desires, little things you might’ve wanted since you were a girl—thing you don’t remember wanting anymore.” You hear absently, hands pushing back the hair from your eyes, but you can’t really see her—just little pinpricks of gray-green and a streak of tacky white. “None of them will seem exactly right—each will have some insignificant detail that’s wrong. Find it.”

You can’t feel your tongue—but you also know its three sizes too big, your taste buds pressing into the roof of your mouth that tastes like expensive bourbon and harsh chemicals.

“Find it,” Kara’s aunt says. “Find it, and bring Kara home.”

* * *

“Mother, really,” you say, rolling your eyes despite the smile on your lips.

Your agent had called last week about the manuscript and you’d gotten a little creative with your excuses—which wasn’t any kind of surprise, Perry White had known you since you were a college intern, he’d gotten pretty good at determining your bullshit by now.

Your mother’s _hovering_. And it has gone from sweet to smothering, but you don’t have the heart to tell her. She’s straightening up the pages of printed documents at the edge of your desk—stories you’d had written on the inside of your eyelids when you napped, or things that just came to you in the shower. She was helping with the kids, helping with making sure Clark got up for school at the right time—or at all—and making sure Carter didn’t try to eat every unfortunate bug that happened across his path.

You’d already had to pry two lady bugs from his mouth—his newly risen teeth mashing harshly into your fingertips.

“ _Catherine, really_ ,” she drawls back, hands on hips.

You grin, hands raised letting her know you surrender before she even has a chance to get going—to talk about how you lost weight, and how you were three weeks behind on your deadline.

_Paper Lantern_ was the third novel in a planned set of five—the middle, and most important one, in your opinion. Ailbhe and Lucas were finally going to get their shit together, they were finally going to be in love at the same time, and that was something—right? But you couldn’t—it was like you couldn’t feel anything when you stared down at the page, like you couldn’t _connect_.

“Mom,” you call—the informal name slipping out without thought. You’d tried distance when you’d been younger and bullheaded, but your mother’d won you over. You can’t even remember why you’d sought out distance—it’d been something in your senior year, something sharp and cold, but you can’t _remember_. You suppose it isn’t important now. “What’s it feel like to be in love?”

She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossing slowly. “You were never in love with the boys’ father?” Her joy-filled face curls suddenly into a frown—so harshly, so quickly, but then it’s gone like it’d never existed. Like her face belonged to someone else for just a moment—someone bitter, and bright, and cold—someone who is not your delight of a mother.

“Kass?” You frown, rubbing at your eyes with the palms of your hands, until little bubbles of color splash against the insides of your eyelids. “No, we—I don’t know. There was someone else.” Golden skies, and blue oceans—and—and—no, it doesn’t matter now. You _know_ there was someone else, it’s on the tip of your tongue—but you can’t come up with a name, can’t connect it to a face. Just—gold skies, and blue oceans. “We just missed each other, I guess.”

“Love is,” your mother says while walking into the room and sitting down on the edge of your couch. Pale gray eyes watching you before turning down to look at the floor. “Love is never asking someone to change, but showing them that they can. It’s—supporting, and guiding, and being there, even when it’s hard— _especially_ when it’s hard.” You feel bad for asking because you can see from the faraway look in her eye that she’s thinking of your father—even years dead—and you don’t want to force her to relive that, to think about that.

But she’s smiling, and wiping delicately at her eye—it’s the slope of her brow as she breaths in and fills herself with air. You have a pencil in your hand without thinking, writing— _Lucas knew when enough was enough, knew when to keep the words inside that desperately wished to escape; it was in the delicate line between memory and pain that existed on the planes of Ailbhe’s face._ You frown at the nonsense words and scribble half of them out.

“Love is never expecting someone to love themselves less, just so that they can love you more.” You say looking down at the scribbled out words on the paper—the handwriting slanted and wrong. You’re blinking rapidly, trying to push through the black dots swimming at the edges of your vision. They swim and spread, growing larger and then pulling away. They’re filling places inside you that you’ve never noticed are empty before.

Whole parts of you that feel cold and lonely, like you’re missing something. _Someone_. There’s a chemical taste on your tongue, and a stretching in your bones, like you’re growing into someone else—turning and twisting. You shake your head to try and clear out the warbling buzz in your ears.

“Everything alright, Cat?” Your mother asks, standing up until she can tilt you chin up to find your eyes. There’s such open concern in soft eyes—eyes you remember to be so much bluer, so much colder. “Cat?” She asks again, and you can only think, _this isn’t right_ , even if you can’t put your finger on it. Can’t explain exactly why this is wrong.

_She doesn’t call me Cat,_ you think absurdly—which absolutely isn’t true, except it feels _right_.

Tapping your pencil against the paper, you can’t focus—there’s something flickering though your mind. None of this feels right, it’s wrong—something is wrong.

Leaning forward, you realize you’ve written something—not on the paper, but right onto the polished wood of the desk. The pencil tip breaking into pieces but not until after you’ve already finished. Only three words, and they don’t _mean_ anything. Until they do—until you trace the lines of the letters with tender eyes and remember orphan aliens, and missing years, and the end of the world.

You remember that you’re supposed to be finding her— _her, her_ , some indistinct person without name, but you can remember blue eyes and blonde hair. Pressing your palm flat against the words, they seep into you. Spilling like sugar into your blood, sweetening the beat of your frantic heart. The words wrap your mind in gray silk, and you’re tired—so tired—like the world is just slipping away.

_Untuck your thumb_ , and everything goes black.

* * *

The bursts of color across the night sky make the fourteen hour flight worth it.

When all of your classmates had gone to Cancun or Tijuana you’d scoffed and scowled—you had no desire to go south of the border to make a fool of yourself. You didn’t need cheap tequila, and a staph infection—in fact tequila was the _last_ thing you needed if you wanted to take your GPA into consideration.

You’d had a dream just two days before spring break—you might’ve called it a nightmare if you hadn’t remembered how at peace you’d felt before everything crumbled. Before you woke up in a sweat with _our happy ending_ on your tongue. Crumble, crumble—you couldn’t get the word _crumble_ out of you mind. Couldn’t forget the tugging longing in your chest that made it impossible to focus in class. There was something you needed to do, somewhere you wanted to be.

The next day you bought a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires.

There’s an official—and organized—parade happening in the city so bright the black of the sky was bleached mauve at the horizon. There’s the distant drawl of music, perfectly pitched and measured. But that hadn’t been what you were looking for—it wasn’t whatever was trying to escape your chest with nefarious purpose. So you’d wandered out of the stands full of tourists and found your was through the twisting streets. There was a sour taste in the air, a bitter tang—but it felt less claustrophobic in the narrow alleys between shops, than it had in the open air of the parade route.

How exactly you’d ended at an unsanctioned bon fire on what was probably a private beach at some point—you didn’t know. There was dancing, and laughter—music so loud and disjointed it pulsed through to live in your very bones. A visceral _living_ kind of music that made it impossible to keep your seat for long—that thrums, and coaxes, and cajoles. Between your hands is a rather ornate cup you’d gotten somewhere down the beach—there’d been a group of like-aged students blessing passers-by with show tunes and jigs.

“You’re the only person who hasn’t succumbed,” a voice says to your side.

When you turn, you can only _just_ make out the curve of her cheek, and the point of her chin. The bonfire behind her casts so much of her features into shadow—except her smile. It’s bright, and wide, and makes your stomach clench. Her golden hair a burnished halo around the crown of her head.

“I’m not the succumbing type,” you reply, tipping your ornate goblet a little before taking a sip. “But for argument’s sake we’ll say I am; succumb to what?”

This stranger laughs and your heart trips a little like the drunken fool it is and all you can think if how you’d like to make her laugh forever.

“Dancing.”

You look around and realize she’s right—you both are the only two seated, everyone else twirls and dips and _moves_. It’s a breathing beast of activity as the gathering cinches and presses close. Bodies against bodies, living the rhythm that pours through them—accentuated by the _boom pop_ of fireworks over the ocean. Half of them are paired up—face to face, fingers locked together.

There’s a rustle of sand, and then a hand’s being extended in front of you, “Wanna dance?”

You should say no, you should smack this stranger’s hand away and go somewhere else, you should do so many things except what you actually do—toss back the rest of your drink, feeling the pleasant burn, and put your hand in hers. She’s strong, pulling you effortlessly up to your feet and tugging you closer to the waves. The fireworks splash across the still top of the ocean, rippling slightly with the kick of bare feet through the tide.

“I have horrible rhythm,” you warn in a hush, because there’s something in the air you’re afraid to shatter, some realization you’re afraid to make. She turns you toward the bonfire, and even form a distance you can feel the heat washing along your cheeks and into your hair. She’s behind you, hands respectfully on your hips as you start moving. The plucking guitar builds and swells inside you and you’re somewhere else for a moment—another beach, another bonfire.

_Tell me_ , living like a vibration on your tongue, unspoken words from another lifetime. _Our happily ever after_. You’re burning up from the inside, molten everywhere a soft hand graces with whispering finger tips and sure palms—the drift of your skirt snagged as she spins you out of her arms, and back into the strong line of her body. She wraps around you like she’s meant to, molding to each and every dip of your body until you can’t feel a breath of air between you.

“You seem to be doing just fine,” she rumbles in your ear, lips close enough to brush the shell of your ear, and you can’t help shivering. Winding a hand up over your shoulder to snag into the gold of her crown, wrapping strands around your fingers until she’s even closer—if possible—the wet press of lips to the curve of your throat, to the line of your shoulder.

“It feels like we’ve done this before,” you confess, and you can’t stop feeling like it’s true—like you’ve felt the hot smoothness of her palm against your thigh, climbing, and climbing, and climbing until it stops just short of indecent. You whine and drag her hand just a little higher until fingertips are brushing lace and it feels _right_ , feels perfectly alright.

You wonder if it’s easier to fall in love in Buenos Aires—or maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’re enamored with the _feel_ of being someplace new, of being just some other than yourself for a few minutes.

“It does, doesn’t it?” She laughs and you need to see her face—need to see more than the barest curve of a chin and the blonde of her hair. When she spins you again, you slant and curve close—chest to chest, your nose along the line of her throat, lips tasting the salt on her skin. She tastes like ocean air and—and—there’s something else, something specific. Something that feels like it’s so much larger than dancing with a stranger on the beach.

_Petrichor_ , she smells like the sky after a thunderstorm.

Leaning away, you see high cheekbones and a blade of a jawline—a delicate ear and a perfectly set smile. Red, red lips that look like they’ve been painted fresh and you wonder how many red marks are up the side of your throat. Her hair’s a messy halo and you can’t stop yourself from digging fingers through the strands at scratching at her scalp until she’s purring—leaning in to catch your mouth in a kiss. It’s a rushed mess of a kiss-her mouth tastes like Amarillo and orange, her tongue deftly slipping into your mouth with five kinds of permission.

“Kara,” you husk the moment her lips leave yours, a hunger burning inside you, building and spreading like a wildfire determined to scald everything it touches. There’s static in your ears, building and building, until the music is only a distant memory, until you can’t quite see the color of the fireworks over the harbor. A hand had spread along your lower back, dragging up, and up, and up until fingers trace the blade of your shoulders—encouraging you to roll your hips the thigh that’s worked its way between yours. There’s just enough friction that you don’t notice at first—can only focus on the burn in your stomach and the soft caress of fingertips against your collarbones.

_There’s nothing to tell_ , you hear, and it sounds like it’s _inside_ your head, scratching against the inside of your skull, digging into your with more livid vitality than the bonfire’s heat and the phantom touches building you anew. _I love you_. You don’t realize your eyes are squeezed shut until you’re prying them open—the taste of chemicals on your tongue, the bitter burn of _something_ making everything feel too large to fit. Wrong, somehow—even if the hands coaxing you closer, and closer, and closer feel so _good_. Almost right.

Nipping along that sword’s edge of a jaw you nose a cheekbone and forget yourself in another kiss—red, red lips conquering your desire for _something_. You moan—reedy and high—until you only pry yourself away long enough to breathe. “Kara,” you murmur before pulling at her bottom lip with your teeth—but you realize she’d never told you her name, you never saw her face. There’s a panging _something_ in your chest, a static in your ears and you can’t—you can’t feel her anymore, not like you did. You can’t feel the ocean’s tide at your ankles, can’t feel the fuzzy burn in your chest.

When you do pull away, when you do step back you look at her with a wavering uncertainty—black pouring at the edges of your vision, catching the color of the world and bleeding it dry. Black and white flames dancing along the beautiful curve of her cheeks—she’s gorgeous, an angel fallen just for you. But you can’t help looking for something—there’s _something_.

_Kara, Kara, Kara_ —the name is a living thing in your chest, and it’s like you’ve shaken yourself awake after years of winter. Shuddering as the frost falls away and you’re left with the first promises of spring—wines around the heart, thorns digging into your sides. _Kara_. She’s perfect— _no, no_ almost perfect. Because when you look to get lost in blue, blue eyes there’s none to be found. Her eyes are gorgeous and full, spilling out and asking you to dive in—but they’re wrong. More gray, almost brown—they’re a shade that coaxes you closer, they’re _brilliant_ , but they’re wrong.

And then you remember ten years without her, ten years raising boys that remind you of her when you least expect it—you remember prom in your backyard, and making love on your living room floor. You remember promises of going to Buenos Aires one dangerous New Year’s Eve before everything began to crumble, you remember happily ever alters that you forgot how to believe in as the years without her built up. You forgot what _I love you_ sounded like with the plucking of a guitar to accompany it, with the gurgle of the tide.

“You’re not her,” you say sadly, because she’s _almost_ her. She frowns just like Kara, the little pinch at her brow, the slight widening of her eyes—but she feels _lighter_ somehow. She doesn’t embody you like Kara always has—even ten years gone—she isn’t the fault lines in your heart, she isn’t the scalding heat in your blood.

“I could be,” she says hollowly, blinking gray-brown eyes at you that bleed and sink—turning all black until she’s smirking instead of frowning. “I’ve almost had you half a dozen times. Humans have always been so easy.” You can remember now—how you’d lived whole _lifetimes_ lost here, you’ve been half a dozen people, and each one had felt wrong, had felt false—because it was.

“Easy is the last thing someone would call me,” you say while turning around—scrubbing at your face. Your hands smell like the chemicals on your tongue—the world’s cracking around you, black bleeding into the sand, spilling into the ocean until there’s a mind boggling nothingness around you. You feel claustrophobic in the dark until there’s a scream far off in the distance.

“You can’t have her,” not-Kara says, walking toward you—swaying with music you can’t hear anymore. “She’s mine. Mind, body, and soul.”

_Find it_ , Kara’s aunt had said, _find it, and bring Kara home._ And this is wrong more than discolored eyes, than trips you never took together. “She’s not yours.” You hiss, cold inside, burning with the chill. “She’s mine. And I’m not leaving without her.”

Black eyes crinkle in amusement as she laughs, little fissures cracking through her skin as she begins to crumble. “We’ll see.”

And everything tumbles apart.

* * *

You recognize the walk immediately—the carefully places stones that made a awkwardly ambling path through far too much property. Looking over your right shoulder, you see the congregation of beach houses that were close enough to touch—true neighbors. _You’d_ liked seeing how much space you had in comparison—it was the little bit of your mother that lingered despite everything you tried to push down and away.

It’s bright out, even though there isn’t an ounce of color in the world—the sky gray and light, the clouds clustered and darkening at the horizon. A storm so far off shore you can hardly see it. The grass under your surprisingly bare feet is moist and empty of color. You wonder if it’s because the Mercy has lost its grip on your—you’re no longer slanting through lives that have only ever been passing fantasies. Of being someone with less on their shoulders, of being someplace that celebrates, of having a mother that loves, and a father that’s _alive_.

All those people could’ve been you—maybe once, maybe in another world—but it isn’t who you are. You can never be who you are without Kara, like you’d told Alex all those years ago while wallowing in too much alcohol and self-pity. _I’m half a person without her_. A person sans their better half is still a person—you’d learned that quickly and horribly. While hiring people to move boxes that never got unpacked into the attic, or having lawyers define everything in meticulous little words.

“You shouldn’t have tried to keep me,” you mutter, hands shoved into the pockets of your jacket—bundling up because apparently with the color, the Mercy also took the heat. You’re chilled, right down to your snared soul—in places you didn’t _know_ you could freeze. “Now you’re going to fucking choke on me.”

In the silence of this not-world, there’s steps beside you.

“You truly think she’ll pick you?” A voice asks and you don’t want to look up because you know it’ll just be another grab—another reach. Another attempt to wrap you up and smother the conscious thought that you have so firmly in your grasp right now.

“She’ll pick her family.” You snipe, determined to ignore the chittering demon hovering at your shoulder like a progression of poor choices. You feel like this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, the sharp edges jabbing up your side—the spiraling _something_ in your chest trying to hook into you, trying to drag you down and away from your sane mind.

“Her family is here,” the Mercy glibly replies, “she has a wife that never forsook her, and two sons that adore her. Best friends that are happy with their daughter.” Turning to glare you’re face to face with _yourself_. Younger, brighter, there’s something frightfully familiar in the eyes of your colorless doppelganger. She’s grinning with white, white teeth as she glides over the grass—before it curls into something darker, something more sinister. She shivers all over and seems to shake off the sensation. “Oh, she’s awake—see you in a bit, Kitty Cat.”

It isn’t until you press through the suddenly thick air and crest the hill that you realize you’ve been walking in circles for ages—your mind wandering just enough that the Mercy could circle you around and around without you noticing. It isn’t until you realize the green is bleeding back into the grass, and the blue into the sky that you have to shake yourself awake, shake yourself away. There’s no sound, there’s no color, there’s nothing but the pressure on your skin and the chill in your chest—this feeling of being _unwanted_.

Until her.

She’s just as you remember her some nights—the burnished gold of her hair curling messily at her shoulders, the perfect slant of her collars and the tantalizing line of her neck. You could spend whole nights tracing the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw, but you’re caught in her eyes—they’re _right_. Deep, and hopeful, and filled with worlds and eternities—the blue, blue of her eyes something you’d never forget. In ten years, or a hundred. She’s a splash of color in the flat gray world around her—your _whole_ world.

You can’t help the tears filling your eyes or the frantic beat of your heart.

“What—,” there’s a frantic edge to her voice, dripping between the words until there’s a silent stutter. Her arms are crossing like she’s trying to hug away the uncertainty and you just want to wrap her in your arms—this found angel of yours. “Who are you?” She’s hardening, unsure of a world that must be changing—losing color, or sound, or texture. Smooth and flat as silk and just as gray.

“Kara,” you sob, her name spilling like a spent bullet from a scalding chamber. _Click, click, clatter_. Her name spills from your without consideration of how to make her understand—how to make her yours again.

Despite it all, you feel like a home wrecker—no, a world killer.

* * *

Gasping awake you can’t _move_.

There’s something wrapped around you, something holding you down and it isn’t until you truly try to move that you realize the Black Mercy had slid over until its vines could fit snugly around your shoulders. You struggle, thrashing against the hold—but your hearts in your throat and there’s still a coldness in your chest that you’re uncomfortable with. It burns in a way that’s hollowing and horrible. “I need—,” you gasp, struggling, tears spilling down your cheeks and into the open collar of your shirt. “I can’t—.”

You’re hyperventilating—the little black dots crawling along the edges of your vision promise unconsciousness if you don’t get it under control. You’re _screaming_ as you thrash, your fingers numb and clumsy as you pull and tug at the vines. They coil slowly—like they’re retracting, but they’re not doing it _fast enough_. There’s hands pulling you up until you’re coughing—black dripping from your lip and all you can taste is chemical and sorrow—it beads on your tongue like a dab of cocaine, numbing your teeth and making your jaw ache.

“Get it all out,” a voice murmurs—low and soothing—there’s a hand between your shoulder blades as you heave onto the dusty floor. Your whole body rebelling against the sour feeling in your stomach, to the cold in your chest. You’re so tired, you’re ageless and eternal and _done_ — _so done—_ you can see her against the backs of your eyelids how she was just before you awoke. How she’d stared off into her crumbling kingdom with loss and suffering—watching her whole world shatter into pieces. But she’d stepped away, she’d moved toward everything that wasn’t _real_.

You’re sobbing into your hands—you’re a mess, and you can’t bring yourself to care—because for one fucking second you had her back, you had her in your hands, and when she needed you most—you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t convince her to come back—you couldn’t love her enough to justify leaving perfection. “I had her,” you scream, the cheap walls acting as poor insulation. “And then I lost her.” Again, again, again—you spend your whole life losing Kara. Over, and over, and over—and it never gets any easier, never feels numb.

“Look,” the low voice in your ear murmurs, softer than it has been, and it takes three more urgings until you’re collected enough to sit up. You’re dusty, and rumpled, and there’s disgusting black on your pants and palms, and you feel like you’re about to pass out. Everything’s wavering and wobbling, but you turn your head to watch how the vines uncoil—they shrivel and decay right before our eyes. The petals tumble free and away as the whole plant starts to crawl toward the door—getting smaller, and browner, and harsher at its edges as it goes.

Scrubbing your hands against your shirt that had been white once upon a time, you move to Kara’s side. She’s still thin, still malnourished, but there’s color in her cheeks—even if that means there’s dark bruising around her eyes and a sick green crawling up her neck. Her whole body jags a little as she inhales deeply for the first time in months. There’s a flicker under her eyelids like she’s finally aware, finally present and you’re sobbing again—racking sobs that start in your chest. She’s back, you _have her_.

“You brought her home,” Kara’s aunt says, and you can’t help notice that she’s crying too—stoic tears down smooth cheeks, but there’s a flush there, a glossy set to gray-green eyes. “Thank you.”

“You got her this far,” you touch her cheek—hesitant, because you’re afraid she’ll be cold, that this is all some sham. But she’s scalding, as she always has been—as you remember. “I want the details, I need—just not now.” How did this happen? What happened? Where were they? You need to know everything, but you’re alright with not knowing right now because Kara’s hand lifts a little, and her eyelids open just a fraction until there’s the barest sliver of blue, blue eyes. Cupping her cheeks in your palms and smoothing your fingers just under her dark bruised eyes.

“Welcome back, supergirl.” You breathe.


	74. snap shot 74. ( 15, 31, 33, 46 )

**SNAP SHOT (LOIS)**. There's moments that are orchestrated on the fly, things that just _happen_ , things that can't be prevented. And then there are moments years in the making, culminations of lifetimes that just make  _sense._ You've seen a few of these such moments - at the edges of the world, and right at home. But this moment - this one is special.

* * *

You’ve never seen such camaraderie in a press core before—jungled together in what was probably officially called a _ballroom_. Dressed to the nines you see Pulitzer journalists from at least six publications—the Times was holding court at the far side of the room, Manny Ramirez all gorgeous golden skin and Colgate commercial smile. You’ve never wanted to punch someone’s teeth out more than you do when you see him and his smarmy grin. His suit is pressed, his shirt crisp and mint green—you’re sure he did a screen test for his shirt and tie combinations.

Anderson Cooper is maintaining his dignity with at least six other _old school_ reporters that had seen some things. They’re all slack and laughing, complimentary wine in hand, the buffet having been quickly picked over while everyone _mingled_. Everyone was here for one reason, and it was actually a little heartwarming to not see a single camera around a neck, not a single notepad being covertly slipped into palms to catch each and every conversation that should happen.

“S’one of our own, Lane,” Perry had gruffly said while impatiently waiting in the buffet line—he cleaned up well. Dark suit actually dry cleaned, shirt white and his tie butter yellow. You would _swear_ his hair was closer to his natural dark brown than the salt and pepper he’d been sporting since you met him so many years ago. “We mind our own.” You’d been fascinated how two nearby old timers nodded firmly and went about their business.

Of course, you knew this—you’ve been gathering all those unspoken rules to this particular boy’s club for what feels like your whole life. An honor code that exists somewhere outside the thrill seeks in the war zones and the tribal spirits lost to the jungles. That little spark that searches for the best in everyone—despite sharp edges and cynicism. Or maybe because of it.

“Hey,” you hear from over your shoulder, and you’re already smiling as you turn. If you knew he’d look this good, you’d make him dress like this far more often. “I’ve been looking for you.” Slim lapels, crisp lines and broad shoulders—the dark fabric sits on his frame perfectly, even when he twists and stretches a little. Not a single stressed seam; excellent tailoring. His cream vest and tie brilliant against the dark fabric of his Oxford—the pearl finish of the fabric just made you want to _touch_. Not because he looks particularly handsome—though he _absolutely_ did—but because you ached to know if it would feel as cool to the touch as it _looked_.

“Just keeping an eye on the press core,” you supply, leaning up on your toe to kiss him lightly at the corner of his mouth. He smiles wide, and you can’t help fixing the messy curls that toppled onto his forehead—you know Cat would come at him with some hair product if you didn’t get them under control now. “Never know how it’ll turn out with this many Chatty Cathy’s in one room. We could have a game of paddy cakes, or modern warfare; it’s an even split.” He’s grinning and you don’t think _anyone_ radiates happiness like Clark Callaghan—then again, you might be a little bias.

“Oh?” He says, and you don’t know how you didn’t see the _Cat Grant-_ ness in him before. “Well, you deserve a little break before everything gets going. How about we go for a walk?”

“You’re not needed?”

“Nope,” he pops, “I was kicked out.” His much larger hand curls around yours and you’re laughing—just _happy_. Mingling isn’t a _chore_ , but you’d rather go for a walk around the grounds with your boyfriend.

“Sounds about right,” you hum, stepping out onto the balcony and looking down at the sun just about to dip toward the horizon—National City glitters in the distance, far away and below. The skyscrapers stretching up toward the sky, their predominately glass sides bright and clear in the growing dark. “It’s so beautiful when you take a few steps back.” You never were the type to think a city _beautiful_ , but maybe it’s that _something_ in the air tonight that makes everything a little more lovely.

Clark leans forward on the railing, hands clasped in front of him and his smile soft—you know he’ll always consider National City home, no matter how long he’s been in Metropolis. It’s in the way he talks about the city the wonder and reverence meant only for places held dear in the heart.

“Do you know why Kara picked National City?” He asks after a while—the dull whine of a plane far above, his chin tipping so that he can watch it fly past. Even from behind his glasses you see the squint and smile as he surely watches the people within milling about a mile in the sky.

“She’s a West Coast girl at heart?” You really have no clue—it doesn’t seem the type of place a child with enhanced senses and no real grasp of the language would find themselves. Clark shakes his head and laughs a little, turning to look at you with those blue, blue eyes. Bright, and solid, and meant for so much more than this pale blue dot rolling through the black of space.

“She saw a cheesy outdated commercial meant for some real-estate developers. You know the ones—where the old white guy narrates how _National City is the city of tomorrow_!” His voice deepens and elongates until it’s just barely a tone at all, but you know the exact commercial he’s talking about—it was from the fifties, but seemed to pop up every few years. Stark white skyscrapers made of glass and chrome, with perfectly clean sidewalks.

“She said it reminded her of home—of Argo City, where she’s from. She saw the tall glass buildings in the commercial and she felt at home for the first time. Even if it was only for a minute and twenty eight seconds.” You think maybe she sat on some edge far away from the city and saw this—the tall glittering buildings and the soft drone of activity. Of live. Nestled in the dry warmth of the desert and the cool black of the night.

“So all of this—this entire _planet_ would be different if she hadn’t seen some stupid commercial from the fifties?” Its _mind blowing_ , and yet so poignant. Brings to mind butterfly wings.

“Maybe,” he says turning around and looking into the room gathering more and more people. What had seemed like an impossibly large room before seems positively tiny now with everyone milling through the double doors on the far wall and into the adjoining room. “But this? This seems inevitable—even if Kara had decided we’d live in Moscow, or South Korea, or the Congo.”

Clark looks pensive for a moment before smiling, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corner. Elbow extended for you to take, knowing everything was about to kick off. “Or maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my old age.”

“In your old age? You were born sentimental, Clark Callaghan. It’s actually disgusting.”

Disgustingly cute.

* * *

This isn’t even _yours_ , but you’re anxious, and nervous, and everything feels warble-y and hot—which isn’t possible because you know the entire building is at a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. Everyone has found their seat and you’ve never thought you’d be able to hear a pin drop in a room full of professional talkers. There’s an anticipation in the air that crackles like static and there’s a feeling of _finally_ lingering just beyond everything _not_ being said. Someone’s already crying and you want to roll your eyes, but you know if you start mocking them you’ll fall victim to the plight that is _them_.

Smoothing down the front of your pale coral dress as if that could somehow remove the very strategic ruffles that were going on. It’s gorgeous, and you’ll probably not have another occasion like this to wear it to, but it had called to you when you saw it. And it didn’t help that Clark couldn’t help _staring_ when zipping you into it.

“This would’ve been the story of the year,” Anderson Cooper says quietly from the row behind you, turning to lean on the back of your chair so that you can smile at him. He’s as close to pouting as a serious man can be.

“Why do you think there’s a ban on all things journalistic?”

“Because Cat’s a ball buster?”

“Amongst other things,” you agree, because one of your favorite hobbies to this day is going toe to toe with Cat Grant. She’d been the whispered rumor in the offices when you’d been an intern, and then a junior reporter. She flitted into the offices every so often, dropping off by-lines and bickering with Perry like she wasn’t a woman in a man’s world. She went at the puff pieces that he assigned like it was filled with nuclear conspiracies—writing about actors and actresses and all the ridiculous tabloid details that didn’t matter. She did twice the work for half the credit—and she did it with a Cheshire smile, because she knew in the end she’d win.

You want to tell him that this is the story of the decade, nay the _century_ , but the music starts and everyone simmers. There’s a vicious anticipation in the room, of tight shoulders and sharp eyes. The crystal lights glitter and dance, spinning softly like there’s an unnoticeable breeze whispering through the vaulted ceilings. The sky has gone dark beyond the carefully frosted windows, and the stars hang bright in the high visibility up at the top of the world.

The music choice makes you smile as you stand—it’s very obviously _Shut Up and Dance_ and you know exactly who is to blame. You’d caught Clark dancing alone in the kitchen to this song one too many times—he’s even snagged you once or twice and forced you to twirl with him while he cooked breakfast. You _know_ you have two left feet, but somehow Clark seemed to have two right ones and you don’t know if there’s a better reason to love someone, but this is one of yours.

The introduction is longer—the bass pumping through the beautifully hidden speakers that are somewhere in the ceiling and walls. _Thump, thump_ —you can feel it warble and vibrate in the soles of your feet, and then the music thins and softens. Everyone’s standing up, turning toward the double doors at the back of the room with expectation—it’s significantly less people than you’d expected, but you really shouldn’t be surprised. You know there’s more people across town.

You’re boyfriends the first one up—handsome in his suit, and you don’t even feel jealous of the woman on his arm. She’s short enough—even in heels—that it’s almost comical to see her next to Clark, but there’s the same smile on their faces. She’s in a beautiful cream dress—draping and silk. Lace across tanned shoulders and brushing the sides of her throat before plunging into an impressive neckline that really does things to a person—who is into women, which you aren’t, except occasionally with Cat grant, but that’s neither here nor there. Alexandra Danvers is grinning madly and it just seems perfectly alright with the sly curl of Clark’s own grin.

Best _someone_ and _someone_ of honor—the two seemed to flip flop on a daily basis on who was what. One night Clark was best man, the next he was man of honor—not that anyone seemed particularly invested on who would line up where. You’ve never seen a family so intermingled—they held each other up with arms, and shoulders, and buckling legs. There was always someone there to keep you on your feet, always someone to have your back—you feel overwhelmed to know you’re a part of that.

“Callaghan cleans up,” Perry says from the corner of his mouth.

“He does, doesn’t he?” You _know_ you’re smiling like a fool in love.

“Any plans on your own nuptials?”

Your cheeks heat, and Clark’s just pressing a kiss to Alex’s cheek as they cross paths to opposite sides—he catches your eye and winks. “One day,” you breathe out, your heart jumping.

The next pair crosses from opposite doors in the back—meeting in the middle. A gorgeous woman you’ve only met twice before, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on. She’s in the same cream dress as Alex—draped silk and lace, there’s the slightest fitting difference—high up the collarbones, and you know the swirling fabric stitches out a symbol that’s not of this world—Kara had made sure the crest had been worked into the design, the House of In-Ze not as recognizable as the House of El.

Winn looks positively hysterical next to the serious woman—he’s flushed and tucked away in his dark suit, cream vest pressed carefully. Astra’s arm loops through his and they actually make a striking pair—you actually feel weird thinking it, but it’s true. Winn’s inclusion had surprised you and you would have sworn he was Kara’s choice—but no, it had been Cat. Half the planning was done while they played Pokémon Go and low key harassed employees of CatCo.

It was the oddest friendship you’ve ever encountered—but somehow it worked.

They’re more formal in their walk—step, together, step, together—but it works. Winn’s saying something softly, you see how his lips move, catching the words _she’s happy_ somewhere in the middle—but whatever seems inconsequential to the smile Kara’s aunt gives. Wide and true, and it really changed the angles of her face—smooths her edges just enough that she’s soft and happy. You know Earth still a foreign world—still new—but her niece is happy, and that’s what’s important, right?

Right.

You still can’t believe how old Carter looks in his suit—hair recently trimmed though both his mothers had been forgiving of the drummer bangs he’d been growing out because of some girl in school. His suit and shirt is the same cream color as the dresses—slim lapels and squared off shoulders that make him look older than his fifteen years. You can just see the dark vest within the suit jacket that you’d helped him wrangle into place before the ceremony—somehow between the two of you, you’d broken the back strap’s clasp and had to resort to tucking it into the vest’s pocket.

With an arm across his son’s shoulder Kassidy probably looks happier than anyone can who’s part of the wedding party of someone who he shares a child with—who isn’t marry _him_. “Grant’s like my best friend—don’t be gross,” he’d said when the subject was broached—looking genuinely annoyed with the idea. You know he loves Cat—maybe is _in love_ with her, but it doesn’t seem to ruin the dynamic between the two smarmy bastards that went into giving Carter life.

“Alright, champ,” you hear Kassidy say when they reach the front, he’s hugging Carter around the shoulders. “You go get your mom.”

“Actually…” Carter begins.

“Did they change their fuc— _freaking_ mind again?”

“Me and Clark decided, they don’t know.”

And then they’re crossing paths to line up—not before Kassidy ruffles Carter’s hair.

You know that there’s a dozen different endorsement invites—companies and foundations that were putting their money into Kara’s newest bid to save humanity from themselves. The Center for Alien Relocation Efforts was just getting off its feet—it was aiming for integration, for adaption. She wasn’t suiting up to save the day anymore—not really—but she was fighting different fights, and she needed allies for such a battle. You know there’s at least four senators in attendance, and word was the President was going to appear if she wasn’t called away at the last moment.

You’d always thought this would be a small event—just family and close friends, kept hidden away from the prying eyes that follow them both everywhere. You’d stopped counting attendees after a thousand. A lot of this was sound planning, you know, the type of choices made with reluctant head nods if not absolute joy. Of people being names, and those names being synonymous with something that’s obscure and specific both.

“I’m tired of people not knowing,” Cat had absently said one night, glasses perched and Winn pointing at something on her screen that made them both smirk. Some harmless bug Winn had concocted up to spook the nerds on the lower floors—they’d release it into the servers and watch the IT personnel scramble. You’d been waiting for Clark to show up and had been treated to what happened at CatCo after hours. “If every other known name out there can get married three or four times—I can do it the once.” Winn had nodded sagely behind Cat’s head before turning back to the screen and joyfully informing his boss that someone was panicking on the thirty-first floor.

Everyone’s turned to the back, everyone’s waiting—no one, but you, notices that it’s only Alex, Astra, Winn and Kassidy—the brothers slipping away through the side door and into the hall. National City gleams as the lights lower and the pumping backtrack of _Shut up and Dance_ fades out—you know Clark’s responsible for much of the music, following some story he’s concocted in his mind. “They’re a novel, Lou,” he’d say in his own defense, “maybe I’ll write it someday.” You know there’s manuscripts locked away in his desk—know there’s little moments he jots down so he absolutely remembers.

You’d like to read it one day.

There’s a moment of absolute stillness and then Clark’s walking through the door—and on his arm is Cat. You’d been subject to a fair amount of wardrobe discussions—they’d piled and spilled and argued until somewhere in the middle Cat had simply caught Kara by the cheeks and silenced her with a kiss. It’d been so sweet—so assured—that even Clark hadn’t tried to complain about the public displays of affection like he was expected to do. “I don’t care if I’m wearing polyester and polka dots,” Cat had whispered, forehead to forehead with her future-wife. “As long as I’m marrying you, everything else is unimportant.” After _decades_ it had seemed like the perfect thing to say.

You also think that the fact that Cat’s mother frowned at the option helped Cat decide.

She’s _tiny_ next to Clark—even with those daggers she calls shoes, she isn’t even to his chin. You can tell from the tension in his jaw he’s on alert, as he always is when those he loves are nearby. His hand carefully covering the one Cat had looped through his arm. Her suit reflects his—perfectly tailored to the narrow slope of her shoulders, smooth and flawless—right down to the cuff links that wink with captured light. Pearl vest and golden tie that’s this side of slim and accents the slightness of her throat.

You don’t know how you ever missed the similarities between them, how you didn’t see the idealism and strength of character—that _us against the world_ curl of their lips and that righteous glint in their eyes. How finding the truth was something of a blood sport—it didn’t matter that Clark wrapped himself in a blue suit and a red cape when he sought out justice, you know Cat seeks it in much too similar ways despite her too-breakable bones.

“So this is happening,” Clark says when they reach the front, both Cat’s hands on his much larger ones. “Like _really_ happening.”

“It’s really happening,” Cat agrees softly, red painted lips curling into a soft smile that makes even Anderson Cooper melt a little.

“Guess you finally figured out how to keep those thumbs safe,” he grins. “Don’t need the reminder anymore.”

One tear, two—but Clark brushes them away before they last even a moment on Cat’s cheeks.

“The reminder doesn’t hurt,” she says with all the weight of this moment. With the lights, and gathering crowd, of what this all means. “I’m nervous—how fucked is that?” It’s said so low that _you_ can barely hear it, and you’re the closest to them—but Clark laughs a little too loudly and Cat punches him in the shoulder. It makes people a little farther back laugh.

“No need,” palms on cheeks—careful of Cat’s make-up—as he presses a kiss to her cheek. “You guys are kind of inevitable.” Cat settles in her spot, hands clasping and unclasping before she carefully folds them in front of her—Clark finding his place just behind her shoulder.

The middle doors open once more and Carter steps through—chin up, feet together, one hand pressed behind his back as the other extends.

He was _supposed_ to walk Cat in, but he’s grinning at Kara as she steps into the low light and loops her arm through his. Gorgeous. Ivory folds and layers, the palest red—pink really—tracing the edges and slipping between the curls of lace and silk. Long sleeves that spiral and trace along the defined muscles beneath, a collar that leaves all her shoulders bare—you know the sleeves were a necessity to hide the Kryptonite scars on her left arm.

Kara and Carter walk down the aisle, foreheads almost touching as they lean into each other—you wonder if it feels like the longest walk of her life, or the shortest. After decades of the black between stars this must seem like the brightest morning of the yellow sun—this moment an eternity folded in upon itself. Watching mother and son, it’s impossible to quantify why they look so similar—you know very well it isn’t genetic—but there’s something in the line of their shoulders and the tip of their chin. A song bird’s heart in a golden cage, something light and precious that just makes your own too-human heart ache for them.

A decade in the dark couldn’t take that from them—it couldn’t pull out those most precious threads in their particular tapestries. The twisted, and twisted, and twisted cord that all the others wrapped around. That central cord that _is_ who a person is—that very cord that keeps them tethered together. Carter grins and barely has to lean up at all to kiss Kara on the forehead and turns to extend the hand he has in his hold to Cat—who’s blinking rapidly and trying her hardest to stay firm in her attempt to not simper and sob like you know she’s half a second from.

The brothers share a nod, and Clark nervously goes to stand behind the podium—there’s a shuffle as everyone sits down. The lights fading and shifting until they’re warm and red—splashing the whole room in a crimson hue. A facsimile of a red sun.

One moment, two moments.

“Finally,” Clark says with the wryest smirk—his expression all _Grant_ , even with his House of El blue eyes.

“Standing here it’s easy to say this was all but a foregone conclusion. It’s hard to imagine that two people could ever be _more_ intertwined than these two—they’re a story interchanging sentences with every retelling. Building off each other until it’s only expected that the narrative shifts between them.” Clark _glows_ when he’s talking about them, about their love, and you know how it nestles in his heart—in the places that have defined him, and will _always_ define him. He was raised with unquestionable love, the kind that shattered the impossible. “When I was in ninth grade I read _Lord of the Flies_ —and it had theme after theme, and symbol after symbol, but there was one little nuance that I couldn’t let go. Sam and Eric—identical twins, that had such an orbit to each other that their names were no longer spaced and separate. Two halves of some greater whole—Samneric.”

You want to live in Clark’s world—raised by Peter Pan and adored by Wendy as he was. His connection to the written word makes you envious. It’s written like letters across his heart, stitched into his soul. You know a part of him doesn’t want to give away their Neverland to all the people gathered—he’d struggled with the choice until it had been no choice at all. “It’s ours,” he said one night weeks ago.

“Cat picked me up from school that day, and I told her—with all the authority afforded to a thirteen year old. “Catnkara,” I proclaimed with all kinds of innate satisfaction—like I’d uncovered some truth they hadn’t thought to look for. Because—how could it be anything else? Two halves of some greater whole, two people so intertwined that the spaces could be removed. Seven thousand miles wasn’t _enough_ , I had thought back then—and I still think it today, twenty years later.” Cat’s grinning at him, nodding along, and you wonder what it had looked like from her perspective.

Clark pauses, looking out over those gathered and then at the two women who he cherished above all others. “My grandfather had a favorite story—about his late wife Eleanor and the time she’d given his brother a bloody nose for being a bit of a ponce.” Said brother’s children laugh from where they’re interspersed in the room—the Callaghan clan still thick as thieves, even years later. You’d been able to pin point them from their laugh lines and bright blue eyes—joy manifested in them with a startling ease.

“He’d tell me loving someone isn’t controlling a person, or fighting their battles for them—love is being there at the end of the day to remind them that someone cares.” He isn’t looking down at the paper he’d put on the podium, he isn’t referring to the ridiculous amount of notes he’d been scribbling for the better part of the last month. “It’s reminding someone to untuck their thumb if they’re going to haul off and belt someone, just so that they don’t hurt themselves in the process.”

You’re crying—you can’t hide it, but there’s a tenderness spilling into everyone watching, even if they don’t know how _important_ this moment is. Cat’s mouthing _I love you_ , and Kara’s trying to keep the tears from spilling. They’re beautiful, and you’re choked because you’re a part of this—you haven’t shouldered the weight of missing years, you weren’t the keeper of all their secrets—but you’d been allowed in. To the messy chaos that was the Callaghan-Grant clan—aliens, exs and in-laws aplenty.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is— _finally_. You’ve taught me that love isn’t easy, it isn’t always smooth—but it’s _worth_ it.” Everything’s getting a little wobbly, and you can barely see the rings being taken out—you’d seen them the night before because Clark hadn’t trusted himself to _not_ lose them. You expected more diamonds, honestly, but they were simple bands. Antique white gold, inlaid diamonds for Cat that had once belonged to a woman with a mean right hook, and some space metal for Kara—something about durability and melting points.

“So, let’s—you know, wrap this up—for reasons other than that I’m about to cry.” There’s a laugh as Clark clears his throat and exhales. “Do you, Cat Grant, take Kara Callaghan as your lawful and wedded wife?” Simple, soft, and there’s a drawl of silence as Cat smiles—wide and unhindered.

“Until the stars go dark,” she promises, sliding the ring onto Kara’s finger.

Clarks sniffs a little, before clearing his throat. “And do you, Kara Callaghan, take Cat Grant to be your lawful and wedded wife?”

Kara is already leaning in, slotting Cat’s wedding ring onto her slender finger. _Until the stars go dark_ , “and after even that.”

“And by the power vested in me by the Online Church of Universal Life, and hopefully the State of California—I now pronounce you married. You may kiss the bride—in the least graphic way possible.” They’re laughing as they lean in and seal their union—Cat’s face cradled in careful palms that could bend steel and shatter cement. You can see their lips moving, whispering words into each other’s mouth and it feels more intimate than a kiss should be—it makes your heart clench and soar at the same time.

 _Finally_.


	75. snap shot 75. ( 12, 24, 26 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT)**. _There’s moments that swell and swallow as the years pass—they grow and grow until they aren’t moments at all, but whole lifetimes pressed down fitfully into the few blinks of an eye it takes to change someone’s existence forever._

_But decaying memories have no place in the perfection of today._

* * *

There’s something romantic about the last days of winter.

Of the frost clinging to the grass in the morning before the sun yawns awake and melts it into the soil—of nights that are still just a little too long, but no longer so cold that it’s uncomfortable to take a walk beneath the stars. They’re bright and spilled liberally through the sky—Kara’s tracing lines above with whispered confessions of myths long dead. Of foxes and hounds, of hunters and oxen, of bears and deer—each one a story woven through the ages, and you’re aware of most of them—you’d been particularly adept at mythology in school—but you like the way Kara tells them.

The way her lips wrap around the fantastical elements of a tale—of endless falls and lyre songs, of fickle love and boundless affection. You wonder if there’s a story out there of simple love—of knowing, and living, and dying with that love unscathed. One with hearts unbruised. There has to be one—or maybe that kind of love is boring, maybe it’ll never find itself stitched into the stars because no one wants to hear about how love, was love, was love—not despite anything, or because of anything else. But for the simple reason that there was really no chance after eyes met and hearts synced.

“That’s Vega,” she’s saying, her cheek against the crown of your head, which would usually bother you, but it’s the last days of winter and you can only flush with how _happy_ you are. “And that’s Altair.” You’re nodding along, but she’s stopped so that she can grin down at you—you huff and look up, trying to find the star clusters she’s talking about.

“Okay, okay. That’s Vega,” you point to the star far to the East, “and that’s Altair.” Another cluster that seems to be entirely across the sky—far, far to the West. “What’s their story?”

“It can go a few different ways—but the one I like is about Zhinu, the youngest of the sky goddesses seven daughters, and Niulang, a mortal cow-herder.”

“Talk about marrying up,” you murmur into her sleeve before she continues.

“Niulang lived alone on what used to be his parents cattle farm, tending to his herd—he was happy with his life, and wanted for nothing until one day he came across a beautiful young woman. Her name was Zhinu, and unbeknownst to Niulang she’d snuck out of her mother’s palace and went down to Earth—despite being told never to do so. The two spent whole afternoons together, and fell in love and married.” You wonder if it would have become a folk tale if it had just ended there—if they’d simply lived their lives; with just the every-day enormity to finding that one true person to love on a planet of billions.

Probably not.

“I feel a _but_ coming on.”

“ _But_ ,” Kara stresses, looping an arm across your shoulders and you don’t have to consider it for long until you’re tucking under her arm and into the pleasant warmth of her. “Zhinu’s mother—the sky goddess—noticed that her clothes were beginning to wear away—tearing at the edges—and she went looking for her youngest daughter. Finding her down on Earth, where she was told never to go—furious, she snatched up her daughter’s wrist and tugged her back into the heavens.”

“Her mom’s kind of a bitch,” you comment, and Kara shakes with a laugh.

“Kind of,” she agrees, “Now, Niulang doesn’t know what to do—his wife’s gone someplace he can’t follow, and his heart is broken. In his heartache he stops tending to his herd, stops taking care of his farm until one day his father’s prize steer, a golden bull, talks to him—tells him he can bring him to the sky palace, if he promises to mind his fields once more.”

“Hold the fucking phone,” you pull a little away, incredulous, “he never noticed his cow talked?”

“I mean, the cow never talked until now.”

“Really? That’s what they went with? The cow suddenly decided to talk?”

“Yeah, now shush,” you’ll keep absolutely quiet if she keeps kissing you like she is. Fingers curls at the back of your neck, lips soft and insistent. Kara leans away with a far too smug smile. “So, Niulang agrees and rides the golden bull into the sky—chasing after his bride. And just as he was about to catch Zhinu, her mother slashed her golden hairpin across the sky and cast both Zhinu and Niulang back. Far to the east, and far to the west—the whole Milky Way now between them.”

Kara’s turned so that she can wrap around you from the back, arms looped across your collarbones, her lips warm against the shell of your ear. You can see the stars in question—they aren’t particularly bright, but there’s a good amount of them so close together. “A whole galaxy between them,” you say, leaning into Kara to fight the shiver tripping up your spine. “That’s horrible.” There’s a sluggish cloud drifting across the sky, lazily plodding along until Vega was no longer visible.

Kara nods into the crook of your neck, her lips almost hot though you logically know they should be cool.

“Zhinu cried and cried, filling the world with her tears, and so moved by their love her mother allowed them one day together—she moved their stars just close enough that a bridge of magpies would allow them to meet.” It’s ridiculous in the way all love myth are, talking animals, and deities, and oceans made of tears, but you try to imagine having only one day. One day to feel the heat of Kara’s lips and the careful way she traces your collarbone. How she fits into you in ways that are silly and heartwarming.

“So, on July 7th, every year, Zhinu and Niulang meet and fall in love—over and over, until the end of time.” You can _hear_ the smile in Kara’s voice.

“Until the stars go dark?” You jest.

But she sounds so very sincere when she whispers, “Yeah.”

Even if you did have impulse control you’d never think about how easy it is to turn and catch Kara by the cheeks—you’d _swear_ there’s a flake of snow in her eyelashes, but maybe you’re just in love. “I love you.” You murmur before leaning in to capture her lips in a kiss—it’s slow and long, and you pour everything you are into it. Every dream, every moment, and every single ounce of affection you have in your too mortal soul. You don’t have forever, not really, but loving someone like this makes that hard to remember.

You love how she bends into you, how she hunches slightly so that you don’t have to lean too far up on your toes—how her hands feel hot and solid at your waist, pulling you closer. Midnight walks sound lovely in theory, but everything you want is in front of you—and everything you want to _take_ is best left behind closed doors. Nipping at her lip and pulling back until Kara’s whining and trying to follow. “Down girl,” you coo, stroking fingers up and into her hair, tugging just a little until her eyes go soft and hazy, lips parting with a soft whimper.

Leaning up until your teeth catch the edge of her ear, “take me home, supergirl.”

 _Schick_.

Abruptly, there’s something cold just under your jaw, tipped up along your throat. “Having a nice night, ladies?”

A voice rough as soaked gravel lumbers through your narrowing senses—you’ve been tossed back into the world suddenly, everything warbling out and away. There had only been Kara—her eyes, her heat, her lips—but now there’s the cold night, and the metallic taste in the air, and the cold steel beneath your chin, and the sour breath on your cheek. There’s the rough drag of fabric, and you mind is stuttering and tripping, but all you can think is how it sounds _thick_ , like double ply canvas and Dickie working gear.

Kara’s eyes are open, they’re open and sharp, and you’re straying away from her because there’s a pressure just to the side of your windpipe directing you to take a step back. Your heart is hammering away at the back of your throat, your pulse frantic on the flat of your tongue—you can barely hear anything, but that wet gravel voice _is_ talking, you can feel the vibration in your cheek, even if you can’t feel the words. Kara’s mouthing _it’s alright_ over and over—her blue, blue eyes looking blacker as she gets farther away.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Kara’s saying, her voice pitched a little high, her shoulders tense under the fluffy down of her jacket—it’s a beautiful jacket, and you’re glad you bought it for her. You never liked how she schlepped around in single digit winter weather in a Hurley cargo jacket, or some ridiculous sweatshirt. The turquoise North face jacket really emphasizes the slimness of her waist, and the very attractive width of her shoulders.

You remember how you’d seen it in the window of some store, and knew you needed to buy it for her.

“Cat,” your name, softly spoken—a little low and you can’t really focus. “Cat.” You look away from Kara’s jacket and realize she isn’t looking at the man behind you anymore, but at you—and you realize you can hardly breathe. The air tastes stale in your mouth, and you realize you’re hyperventilating. The acknowledgement of what’s happening makes it easier to slow your breathing, to pull inside for a moment, and then release.

“You can have whatever you want,” Kara says, but like she’s saying it for the second or third time, it’s the tightness at the corner of her blue, black eyes.

There’s a rough laughter at your ear and then the disgusting chill of a tongue on your cheek—every muscle in your body tightens and you can’t help how you jerk forward to pull away. The blade bites in, you whimper, and the man behind you says. “And if I want her?”

Kara growls—an honest to God rumble, “take the wallets, you can rack up a few thousand in charges before we cancel them.”

“Bitch doesn’t get it,” he says to you, low like it’s some personal little secret between you, “she doesn’t get to decide what I get to have.” There’s a hand, a rough grope along your stomach that makes you tense, and you imagine it’s meant to prove his point—that he’s in control, that there’s nothing Kara can do. But you remember a bunch of moments like shuttered frames in a viewing scope—pictures of days past. Jack Ellis trying to move an immovable girl at fifteen, a shattered bed-frame after a long night at eighteen, splintering wood at a funeral beneath shaking hands at twenty-one, or too solid shoulders refusing to budge at twenty-four.

Little non-moments that were subject to the _actual_ moment being had.

She’s really only a step or two away, just far enough that if you were to reach out you’d only be able to brush the puff of her turquoise jacket, But that doesn’t seem to hinder Kara any—because she’s suddenly so very close. One step, two steps—and you’re being spun away, there’s the cold bite of metal but it’s negligible, because now you’re scared. This isn’t an angry harmless high-school boy, this is a sour man with a blade—someone that makes your skin crawl. And Kara’s directly in front of him, her shoulders hunched a little, her hands carefully raised like she’s going to shove him away—but he’s not moving away, he’s moving in, blade lowered and then they’re pressed together.

You see how his knife stabs into her upper stomach—it’s too central to be safe, too high to be anything but dangerous. It’s the little facts that flicker like pop-up movie tidbits when you’re gasping her name over and over— _Kara, Kara, Kara_ —and he’s jerking back and stabbing again, and again, and again. Quick little movements that are almost horribly systematic—over, and over, and over. It feels like minutes, and hours, and lifetimes, but it’s really only seconds—he’s frantically stabbing, and you don’t realize why until he’s jerked unnaturally to the side and cries out.

His non-dominate arm wretched horribly at the middle of the forearm—the _crack, snap_ of it almost making you sick. His howling shatters the night—and there’s blood. It’s dark, and thick, and you’re panicking and sick to your stomach because no one could survive that—six, ten, eighteen, _a thousand_ , it didn’t matter how many times he actually stabbed— _no one, no one_ , is all you can think.

But Kara isn’t collapsing like you expect her to, she isn’t swaying and shaking and gasping—isn’t clutching at her stomach where the red has stained the turquoise of her jacket. She’s leaning toward the sour man crumbling to the ground, his body curling and shaking and you can’t find a moment of pity in your stomach for _bitch doesn’t get it_ and a crawling, pawing hand. You only care about Kara, only care about the red, red blood that looks black, and the shake in her shoulders. Everything is warbling and spilling, and you’re tripping over yourself just as she desperately steps back and almost bumps into you—she’s pale, and there’s blood on her cheek, and you want to wipe it away, but there’s more concerning things to focus on.

“Everything’ll be okay,” you’re saying, because that’s what someone’s supposed to say in a situation like this, right? _Everything is fine_ , something that sounds so false on your tongue. You press a hand against her stomach, trying to find the holes, trying to make sure she doesn’t bleed out—because her own hands are red and far out to her sides like she wishes to have nothing to do with them.

“I wanted to kill him,” she’s saying low, over and over, a harsh little whisper.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Because she sounds broken, but doesn’t she understand she’s _dying_ , and you couldn’t care less about the scumbag whimpering on the ground. “Let’s sit you down, alright?” You need to—you don’t know what you need to do, but you can’t find the wounds, can’t properly search. “I need to put pressure on the wounds, I need—I need to call an ambulance.” Because she’s dying, you _know_ she’s dying, it’s some frantic little scroll of facts in your brain—how easily someone can bleed out, how ruptured stomachs and punctured spleens kill slowly and painfully.

“I’m fine,” she’s saying, but you’re barely listening.

“You are,” you agree, because belief means something right? If Kara believes she’s alright, she will be—right?

“No, Cat, I’m really fine. He didn’t—he didn’t get me.” Her voice shakes, and she shudders, and you stop for a moment—allow your brain to sluggishly catch up. The warble tittering at the edge, waiting for you, but you can only breathe harshly through your mouth—because the metal taste in the air grounds you.

“I saw him, Kara,” you supply, “you’re in shock.” You want her to be right, and for a moment you think _maybe I’m wrong_ , but you saw him. Saw how his knuckles caught on the zipper of her jacket, saw how little feathers slipped free of the punctures in the jacket the knife made. You’re spreading said jacket, pressing fingers into the dark brown Henley below—she’s trying to slick your hands away, trying to step back, but you won’t let her—won’t allow her to slink off. There’s holes in her shirt—seven in total—but there’s no wounds. 

Nothing.

“How?” You ask, running a finger along the tear in the fabric, along the scalding hot slickness of her skin—there’s blood, but you’re beginning to understand it isn’t her’s, and there isn’t even a lot. It just stained and spread. “How?” You ask again, because you can’t think of anything else.

“He just caught my shirt, Cat, I’m alright.” Kara’s saying, cradling your hands in hers and encouraging you to your feet—you realize now you had been on your knees in front of her, running fingertips along the defined muscles of her stomach.

“No, Kara, I saw him. I—he didn’t just _catch your shirt_ , that’s—no.” You don’t know, but maybe you should, maybe this makes more sense then you’re allowing. You can’t rightfully breathe, the warble has returned and you feel like you’re tripping, even though you haven’t moved an inch. “What— _what_?” Is all you have, but you think she understands because there’s a sudden determination in her eyes.

“We need to get that cut looked at,” she’s saying, eyes flickering away and then returning, finger nearly running along the shallow mark of crimson on your neck—not actually touching because her fingers are red with blood that isn’t hers, and _ew_ , but you can feel the heat of her fingers.

“No, no— _no_. It’s fine, I’m—I’m fine. I— _what_.” This doesn’t make _sense_ , it doesn’t logically—but you see the knife on the ground, the glinting metal not polished but hardly dull. Its tip is curled—bent ever so slightly—hardly anything dramatic, but you’d felt the blade, had seen the straight horrible tip out of the corner of your eye when it had been pressed to your neck.

“Kara,” you say her name like a warning, sounding like the edge of your sanity feels—flinty, and hard, and nearly all gone.

“He didn’t get me, Cat,” she still insists, and maybe you’ll remember years later how scared she sounds under the assurance, maybe you’ll think about that some night a decade away when she’s been gone for years already and you’re hollow and wish you could get those years back.

But today, right now, this moment presses down on you with all the things you’d been willing to overlook, all the things that you allowed to filter past and away—all the things you’d never wanted to question because it hadn’t seemed _important_ , and you’d always settled too easily when Kara’d brush away the subject with an _it’s nothing_ , or a _don’t worry about it_. You believed her, _every time_ , and now you feel the proper fool. _It’s nothing_ is seven knife marks in a bloody shirt and a bent blade on the ground, it’s fear slicked harshly through your heart, and terror still living at the edges of your brain.

One step, two steps—you’re backing away, and you’re having difficulty breathing, but when Kara steps forward she stops. She must see something on your face because when you keep backing away, she doesn’t follow—her hands loose at her sides, her eyes black in the dark—you think she might say your name, but there’s nothing else said, no truth given.

The walk home has never felt so long.

* * *

The next time you see her—two days later—you’re calm.

The cut on your neck has scabbed over and you’re no longer frantic thoughts and fears spilling and mixing and making everything hard to understand.

You’ve put all of your thoughts down of flash cards—spent all night putting questions into perfect order, and incidents into perspective. All the little things you’d looked over because it hadn’t mattered at the time, because being in love made you feel invincible, and you needed that so much when you were younger. The comfort of knowing who exactly a person is—even if you don’t know everything—you thought you knew enough.

You’re ready to listen—you’re ready for explanations and conclusions.

You spent half the night in the weird dark parts of the internet looking for answers that just didn’t ever seem right—you wanted to comment on almost every page asking if they were alright, if they needed professional help.

She’s wearing pastels and suspenders, hands shoved into pockets with slouched shoulders and scuffing shoes. She smiles at you, hand already raising to fix glasses that always slide down her nose.

“We should talk,” you open with.

She pauses, eyes a little wide. “What about?”

There’s a frustration in your chest, a hollow discomfort that you didn’t realize had been building for the last forty-eight hours, a feeling you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge until this moment. This absent brush off, this assumption that—no, _no_ , this would not be another oddity you ignored.

“You know what about, Kara.”

She shuffles, looking down at the tips of her ugly canvas shoes—years later, you’ll think about the terror in her eyes, a terror you hadn’t been able to recognize in the moment because of your own hollow pressure in your chest.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she assures, firm in a way that’s unusual—at least unusual with _you_. “I told you, nothing happened. I’m fine.” You want to shake her and tell her that you don’t _care_ , that it doesn’t _matter_ —but you’ve always had a temper, you’ve always been a little too reactive.

A little too mean.

“Clearly.” You snap, the flashcards in your pocket forgotten, the understanding in your heart festering by the moment—you want to ask why she can’t trust you, why she thinks you’re someone to hide from. You’re _hurt_ , because she has every one of your pieces—each broken and pathetic shard of your shattered self. She knows how sometimes you’re just _sad_ , for no reason, how you _crave_ affection even if you’ll never ask, how you’re so turned around by who you’re supposed to be sometimes even you can’t remember who you are.

But she doesn’t trust you with those pieces of her—not the real ones, not the truth.

“Well, I suppose I should leave.” You say.

“I thought—weren’t we having lunch?” Kara has that look on her face like she’s trying to keep up, trying to understand your reaction—but there’s just so much simmering inside she can’t see.

“We’ve nothing to say to each other,” you exhale, and swallow, before turning to walk away, you will _not_ cry in front of her, will not break and give her yet another piece of you she won’t return.

“Cat,” Kara’s always said your name like its special—like it’s new and fresh and wonderful. But now it’s slow, and drawling, and sad—confusion fraying the edges. “ _Zrhueiao_.”

For the second time, she silently watches you leave.

* * *

You don’t seek her out again, don’t allow yourself to fold into patterns you’re desperate for.

You can’t find any comfort because the person best at comforting you is out of your reach—she’s across town in a book store, or a lab, or tucked away in her piled high secrets.

You could ask Clark—you could pry answers from him, truths that you can’t get from Kara, but he’s an innocent in this. He’s just a boy who needs to focus on school, and girls, and how to clean all the shaving cream from his jaw that he still doesn’t need because you’ve yet to see a single hair on his chin.

“Are you and Kara fighting?” He asks one night, his mouth full of lo mein.

“Yes.” You answer, because hiding it is impossible—it’s been two weeks, and the flash cards are still in the pocket of a jacket you refuse to wear.

“How long’ll you be fighting for?”

“There’s never really a set time for fights, heathen.” You supply, trying to focus on the television show he’d roped you into watching. “They just stop, eventually.”

“I don’t like you guys fighting.” He sounds upset, and your heart drops, and you want to promise him that you’ll fix everything if it’ll make him happy, but you can’t. All you can do is slide closer until his head can tuck under your chin and his too-big body curls into yours—he’s twelve, and getting too big, too fast. Your little boy bordering on teendom, and you don’t like it.

“I don’t like it either,” you confess.

* * *

Kara sends flowers—big eccentric bouquets that you know have some kind of meaning, but you refuse to look it up. Refuse to acknowledge that purple hyacinths mean _I’m sorry_ , or that white tulips ask for forgiveness.

You put them in the conference room and refuse to acknowledge them until the petals are falling to the table and they need to be thrown out.

* * *

Perry asks you again about the position overseas—it’s prestigious, it’s more than you’ve ever hoped for. More than you thought he’d ever give you—he’s a man who will defend his boy’s club until his dying breath, but maybe he’s coming around.

“Grant,” he’s serious, calling you into his office, gray eyes sharp. “Are you serious about this job? Or is this just some stop until you settle down and have a few kids? A little excitement before you’re some stay at home wife.”

Perry knows what this means to you—he knows what you’re willing to do, the work you’re willing to put in, the fights you’re willing to have. You’ve cut out every ounce of respect you’ve earned yourself, you’ve never been _given_ it—you _took_ it.

“You know I am.” You say, because you’re hot at the collar, and hollow somewhere in your chest. It aches and pulses, but you’ve kind of gotten used to it over the last weeks.

“Then take this assignment.” He says it with affection that you know will never leave this office. “You were my first choice. Not some last resort, not some PR piece—you’re good, Grant, and you could be great with the right story to tell.”

He asked you weeks ago to take this assignment—to go into an active warzone and tell the world the truth. You’d hedged, and hedged, and couldn’t imagine being away from Kara for so long—from _Clark_ for so long.

But you haven’t seen Kara in weeks—three—and you’re light and hollow, and hungry for something that you can’t have from Kara.

The truth.

“Yeah,” so maybe you’ll find it somewhere else—maybe this’ll have to do. “I’ll do it.”

Perry smiles—he kind of looks like your father when he does that. Kind in a way that always surprises you. “I know you’ll make me proud, kiddo.”

* * *

Sometimes you forget to remind yourself that your life isn’t a movie.

Isn’t some television series with perfect moments.

You’re standing at the airport terminal, your duffle bag over your shoulder—three other reporters around you. All older, and male, and determined to ignore you like you’ve intruded into some brotherhood of theirs.

You can’t help how often you look to the main hall—to all the foot traffic going past. You stare a little too hard at every flash of blonde that passes—even as the minutes turn to hours, and your flight finally starts to board.

“Looking for someone?” One of the arrogant bastards—Kristopher Arnold—that Perry told you to keep an eye on asks.

“No,” you say, turning finally to hand over your ticket. “I guess not.”

* * *

She never comes.

* * *

Until she does—months later, when everything’s gone to shit.


	76. snap shot 76. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT (KARA DANVERS)**. _None of this is yours. You feel like a thief who walked out of a store without realizing some had stuffed your pockets full of stolen things. An unintentional thief._

* * *

Walking through National City is unsettling because you recognize nearly everything—right down to the hotdog vender that’s perched at the corner of Macintosh and Freemont. He grins as you walk past and asks if you want _your usual_ —you wonder if the woman whose likeness you see in picture frames on walls gets the same things as you. Loaded, with extra relish. Or does she get something else? Where do the similarities begin and end?

Hazy yet stark divides, you can see some of the edges—building skylines you don’t recognize. CatCo is easily fifteen floors higher—you can see it much more easily than usual, without having to peer _though_ buildings.

Your tour guide isn’t really that helpful because there’s really only certain things that are _interesting_ —one of which is the ancient looking building that looks like it had _classical library_ in mind when it was built. The foot traffic of the Saturday afternoon flows around you with the ease of native—or long-time—National City residents. No one looks up from their mobiles, no one bumps shoulders too hard.

“That’s gramma’s publisher,” you’re being told, “they’re all _imbabiles_.”

The little hand in yours makes you feel like a lumbering giant—tiny fingers, and dainty little palms. But such a _strong_ grip. Inhuman, _alien_ —never has such a familiar strength been in such a small hand.

“Imbeciles,” you correct absently, before you realize that is _not_ a word that children should be using. No, they absolutely should not. “No, no—I don’t—don’t use that word.”

You’re pulled to a stop as a little face gapes up at you in absolute wonder—wide eyes so green and bright, little fleck of gold just at the pupil. You have some bone deep desire to turn her _just so_ and see if her eyes glow in the sun.

You think they must.

“Imbeciles!” Alondra grins the word as she wraps both her tiny hands around one of yours and lets you hold all her weight up—little legs tucked up under her so that she might hang off your hand. “ _Imbeciles_.” She’s saying again, and yes, there it is—you’re panicking. You’re breaking her and you don’t know how to fix her.

“No, no! That’s a _bad_ word.” You try, shaking your hand a little—but that only makes Alondra giggle.

“Why?” She asks, happily swaying before she chooses to put her feet back on the ground—thumb promptly tucked into her mouth.

“It—isn’t nice.” You try.

“Why?”

Reasonable. “It could hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Why?”

Why indeed. “Because it implies something mean about a person’s intelligence.”

“Why?”

“Because—,” you don’t even get to finish.

“Why?”

Alondra’s grinning at you—with her hair not up in some monstrosity of a ponytail, it’s long enough to touch her shoulders, and _thick_. Bangs falling unevenly into her eyes—long enough to have to be blinked free, but she doesn’t even bother trying to swat it away. She’s wearing a Batman tee-shirt, and you can already imagine Clark grousing about it— _this_ Clark, you don’t think your Clark would. “What’s so cool about him? He’s just a rich guy, whatever.” Maybe, maybe.

You feel timeless, and misplaced, and horribly wrong for the moments happening around you—but you don’t want to let go, don’t want to tuck away the knowledge that this is _happening_ , that this is real.

Somewhere.

Here.

This beautiful little girl with your nose, and your cheeks—except they’re _not_ yours, they can’t be yours—with bright, bright green eyes and hair more gold than the sun. She’s real, and whole, and grinning up at you like you aren’t some _replacement_. You want to apologize, want to make her understand that you’ll do everything in your power to make this right—to _fix this_ , but maybe in a moment. After a few more seconds of feeling how right her small hand feels in yours—how right, even though it’s so wrong.

Walking through this almost right National City, you feel like it’s some sound stage—set up to imitate your life, to be _almost perfect_. So much _almost_. You want Cat back— _your_ Cat, the person you could trust to keep you on the straight and narrow, who would tell you what to do. How to be _better_ , whatever that meant—she made it easier to figure that out.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until Alondra’s tugging at your hand with all her body weight—not like the Kryptonian she is, but in the way small children do when their parents are being difficult. Leaning backward with her whole little body—ineffective and a little silly.

“You shouldn’t be sad,” she says suddenly, no longer trying to pull you. Her shin’s tipped and her bottom lip is trapped between her teeth—she looks _so much_ like Cat that it makes your heart _ache_. Clark made it seem like such an obvious conclusion—like, _of course_ , the story would end here. _Of course_ , his cousin was Cat Grant’s not-soulmate soulmate. You believed it, and it hadn’t even occurred to you before that—you hadn’t had a name for the flutter in your chest when you were around her.

“I’m not—I’m not sad, Alondra.” She’s a _child_ —it isn’t her responsibility to make _you_ feel better. Not when one of her mothers is missing—lost to _wherever_ , in _whatever_ condition.

“You call me Ally,” she insists, tugging again—and you do start walking. Past the mid-town bus depot that’s all modern glass and twisted metal sculptures.

“I—Ally, you know I’m not your mama, right?” You ask cautiously, because she’s so young—you can forget for a little while with how well-spoken she is, but she’s just a baby. You can’t say  _ieue_ , not like her—not here, on this planet, where you don’t—yours isn’t _here_. Yours sent you away, yours said goodbye. You can’t say it like Alondra, with warmth, and love, and _knowing_.

She’s looking at you right now like she’s trying to understand you, like she’s trying to puzzle out what you’re feeling—what you mean. And on some level, she must, because there’s a little pinch in her brow, a little tuck as she looks away.

“I know,” it’s soft—airy and brittle—but she shakes herself and tips her chin. Listening to something even _you_ can’t hear. “But mama always comes back, that’s what Clark says.” _Always_. There’s something heartbreaking in the knowledge that this family comforts themselves with statistics— _always, always, always_. Something that happens too often—often enough that it feels almost numb at the edges.

You understand that feeling—you understand losing, and losing, and losing until you’re not even sure you have anything left to misplace. You don’t realize until a moment passes that little shoulders are shaking—not a lot, just the slightest shiver as the little girl dutifully drags her wrist across her eyes. Alondra refuses to look at you, but she’s just walking sedately beside you—no longer tugging, no longer talking.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You breathe, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to swing her up into your arms. Rubbing her back and letting her wipe her tears on your shoulder. “Of course she’s coming back—she misses you _so much_.” You might not really know this warped mirror of you that exists here—that’s this little girl’s mother—but you know this _has_ to be true.

There’s just no other possible truth out there.

“She does?” Alondra asks, sniffling into the side of your neck, sticking her thumb back into her mouth.

“More than anything.”

She isn’t shaking anymore, but she’s not trying to get down, not moving much as all—so you walk.

Finally, “why?” Asked so softly into the curls of your hair.

“Because you’re her little girl and she loves you so much.”

One moment, two moments. “What if there’s an Ally where she is that she loves more?”

“Isn’t possible,” you return immediately, combing fingers through her hair. You’re a mess on the inside, in places bruised, and broken, and ruined. Places that you’re so good at ignoring because they hurt _so much_ when you’re allowed to think about them. “You’re the only Ally for her in a million-billion universes.”

You feel a small smile against your neck, feel how her arms tighten a little around your shoulders.

“Okay.”


	77. snap shot 77. ( 15, 27, 29 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _Sometimes you wish you knew how much time you had left with someone. Sometimes you wished you heard the clock. Tick, tock._

* * *

As the days become weeks, and the weeks become months, the fear in your chest grows and swells and eclipses any you’ve felt before—you feel like you’re living in a box made only of windows. You can look out and see everything that’s happening around you, but you can’t touch—can’t orient yourself to the passage of time. There’s obvious signs of it—seasons and calendars, and days gone by, but it doesn’t _touch_ you. Not like it’s supposed to—not like it used to. There’s only the growing fear that’s attached itself to your very bones and left you crippled in ways that have nothing to do with glowing green rocks or bids at mortality.

Cat’s watching you absently from where she’s settled on the couch—chin resting in her palm, elbow on the couch’s arm. She looks comfortable—if it wasn’t for the furrow between her brows and the slight pinch to her lips. She’s beautiful like this—a little flushed, alive and vibrant with everything _human_ about her. From the uncharacteristic concession she’s made to the heat—wearing only a tank top and jogging shorts—to the sloppy pile of hair that’s slowly escaping from the hair-tie she’d pilfered at the beginning of the afternoon. She’s watching you with casual interest because she’s already promised to leave you to your own devices until you asked otherwise.

“I’ve broken her—she’s broken. I’m one-thousand percent sure she’s broken.”

The toddler in your hold is sobbing. Her round little face is turning red and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs—you don’t know what’s _wrong_. She’d been absolutely fine until only a moment ago—nothing had fallen on her, nothing even _touched_ her, but that didn’t seem to matter. Her feet kick insistently as she tries to wiggle out of her hold—she is very weak, _very_ weak, and you’re worried that she’s malnourished. You gave her the little cereal treats that you’d been left with, but she hadn’t eaten any of them. She’d only tossed them around the kitchen before she’d half-dragged, half-walked herself out of the room and into the living room.

“Oh no,” Cat drawls, “Do you think Marion bought the warranty when they got her? Those are usually good for three years, aren’t they?”

You ignore her.

“Come on,” you try, soft and careful—she doesn’t even acknowledge your existence. Caroline Emilia Lorde—your goddaughter—wants nothing to do with your soft tone and careful hold. She’s upset, about _something_ and wishes to continue as she is.

You raised Clark—an infant when you were only a child yourself, but you learned very early into your stay on Earth that very little could actually happen to him. He couldn’t scrape his knees, or bump his head—he couldn’t hurt himself in any of the thousands of ways you know children can. There’d been other concerns, other worries— _were you the family he needed, were you capable of helping him be normal, should you have even taken him that night at the Kents_ —but you worked through those. You worried, and feared, and eventually you found your answers in his smiles. In his laughter. In every moment that he looked at you with blue eyes that were warm, and bright, and so very good.

But Clark is Kryptonian—Clark is nigh indestructible without rocks from a dead planet thousands of lightyears away.

Caroline, on the other hand, is very much human.

Very human—like the little boy growing inside Cat. The little boy you promised to be there for—the little boy who didn’t have the luxury of not being able to be hurt. You didn’t know how to raise a human, you didn’t know how to _protect_ a human—it wasn’t like Cat, who is a force of nature all on her own. This was a small little bundle of vulnerability that would rely on you for _everything_. Your heart starts beating faster just thinking about it. The worry filling, and filling, and filling until it can only spill from the edges of your bones and into your blood.

“Come on, Car,” you plead, still holding her a little away from you, bouncing her slightly like you’d seen on television shows and movies. All it does is make the wailing she’s doing hiccup a little with every bounce. “Don’t you want to unbreak for your favorite aunt Kara?”

“You’re her only aunt Kara,” Cat supplies unhelpfully from where she’s started to flick through channels on the television.

“Which makes me her favorite.” You ration, still trying to bounce the broken out of her.

“In a competition of one.”

You’re beginning to feel like _you_ might cry—Max will never forgive you if you break his daughter. You’d never be able to forgive yourself. Everything is getting a little blurry because you’re _tired_ , not physically—but mentally. There’s been so much piling on in recent months you don’t know what your breaking point is anymore—you don’t know when indestructible becomes a curse, and not some kind of gift. You never want Cat to regret asking you to stay, you never want her to realize she’d be better off without you—without whatever you’ll be bringing to the table with the little boy growing inside her.

You _know_ that everything would have been horribly different if she hadn’t found you that afternoon—if she hadn’t snatched Clark up by his wrist and kept him from running out into traffic. You _know_ everything would be different, would be wrong, and horrible—you don’t want to imagine a life where you didn’t raise Clark with Cat Grant. Where you didn’t get to see how her small arms could cradle him close—could make him feel safe in ways invulnerability couldn’t touch.

“Hey,” it’s quiet, just a whisper, but when you blink the blur away you see her—she’s only just outside your arm's reach, but she smiling softly at you. Green eyes going soft as she steps just a little closer and you can feel the warmth of her against the backs of your knuckles—Caroline’s still hysterical, she’s still red and squalling, and you don’t know how to make that better—but you don’t feel like you’ll float away at any moment.

“Hey,” you say, a little breathy.

“She just needs to feel you,” another step and it isn’t just warmth you feel against the backs of your fingers, but the soft skin of her chest. Spilling heat from how hot she is, Cat feels good against you—even if it’s barely a touch. Her own hands come up to cup your elbows, coaxing you to un-tense and pull Caroline closer. Your goddaughter's a little sticky from the breakfast she’d been fed, and her hands moist from where she’d been sticking them in her mouth. “Children need to feel safe.”

 _You_ feel safe. Caught in Cat’s gaze, you can’t help glancing down at her stomach—pregnancy agrees with her. You don’t care about how she complains about gaining weight in her face, or how she’s _ugly_ now, it couldn’t be further from the truth. Cat _glows_ , and it has nothing to do with anything you understand about biology—nothing to do with your superior senses. It’s just some unexplainable fact, some truth you may never really be able to uncover.

Cat’s close enough now that the little girl is snuggly pressed between your bodies—her screams have simpered off into pathetic little whimpers, and she’s blinking cloudy red-rimmed blue eyes open for the first time since she started. It always surprises you just how blue her eyes are in the soft dark of her face—smooth tanned skin that’s already getting blotchy with her hysterics. It’s so easy to see Marion in the line of her nose and the point of her chin—but Max is in there too. In her blue eyes and expressive eyebrows—in her cheekbones and her ears. Little pieces of them both to make this perfect little girl in your arms.

You wonder—not for the first time—what the little nameless boy growing inside the woman you love will look like. Will he have Cat’s delicate bones? Or will he be tall and lean like Kassidy? What color will his eyes be? What color will his hair be? Most nights, when you go to sleep—listening to the chasing heartbeat across town of mother and unborn son—you imagine these things. Silly little details that you know don’t matter—it doesn’t _matter_ what he looks like, _who_ he looks like.

You love him so much already.

Cat’s hand rests at your hip, the other carding through dark, dark blonde hair—you know it’ll darken as she gets only, but you can’t help but love the midnight gold it is now. Caroline’s calm and gurgling in your arms—the heat pouring off her comforting instead of uncomfortable. She smiling up at you with a toothless grin, chubby cheeks lifting and bunching and your heart warms.

“You’re fine now,” you smile down at her, and little hands reach up to pull at your hair, tugging hard enough that it probably would have hurt someone who wasn’t from the other side of the galaxy.

“You’re gonna be fine too, you know.”

Cat’s looking at you in that way that makes you want to kiss her—though, you don’t suppose there’s _any_ way she can look that doesn’t make you want to take her by the cheeks and capture her lips. You know how Bruce looks at love—like a weakness, like something that can be used against you—but you don’t see any of that when you look at her. You feel stronger, feel capable, you feel properly grounded in ways that have nothing to do with the ground actually below your feet.

“I mean, look at Clark,” she’s saying while combing fingers through Caroline’s hair—the little girl preens and sways backward until she can slop lips against Cat’s cheek in a kiss. “We did pretty good the first time, right?”

“Right,” you agree breathlessly.

“Right,” she repeats, blinking wet eyes until she’s looking at the little girl shoving handfuls of blonde hair into her mouth. Both yours and Cat’s, it seems. Honey blonde and golden blonde mixing, and mixing, until it’s just wet strands in a toddler’s mouth. “I’m scared too. I’m scared that—I mean—I don’t think I was old enough to be scared with him. To really think about how little I knew, or how—how I didn’t really have the best examples.”

You don’t like when she thinks about her mother—or worse, her father—larger than life figures in Cat’s life that built things into her you’ve sometimes only glimpsed. A father who loved her more than anything, but that love was cool, and conditional, and built upon foundations that swayed and crumbled. And a mother that always seemed five steps removed from knowing how to show her love—who controlled with manipulation, and shame, and so many things that Cat still carries with her. A worry that she’s somehow like her mother, unable to love properly—but you know that isn’t true.

Anyone who knows anything about Cat Grant knows that isn’t true.

“We’re not our parents,” you promise, because it’s no question. It takes you a moment to realize that this is the exact promise you made Kassidy—months ago in an airport—a man buckling under the pressure of what he thought he was capable of. What a number parents can do on their children.

Cat laughs, which makes Caroline laugh—it’s a watery sound that makes your heart clench. “That’s probably a good thing. They’re all kind of shit.” You know she has a special kind of anger reserved for your parents—for people she’s never met, who she blames for so many things, and you’re glad someone can be actively mad at them.

You can’t, because anger is something that festers—it bleeds into everything and spoils all of the good. You’re too angry under it all to allow yourself the crippling knowledge that you blame them—that they asked too much, even if you would have it no other way. You can’t imagine a life that you don’t have Clark, don’t have Cat—don’t have Mister Callaghan, or the unborn boy you’ve yet to actually meet. The love you have for all them outweighs the anger most nights—it’s warm, and soft, and makes you glad that you’re so far from home.

It’s a horrible realization to make.

A horrible one to know you’re not sure you’d change anything.

But that’s yesterday’s realization, last week’s knowledge—something you’ve come to terms with in a way that has nothing to do with actually feeling _better_ about it. You have a concrete knowledge that exists—something to remind yourself of when you doubt—you’d do anything for your family.

Anything.

Until the stars go dark.

“Eats!” Caroline cheers, clapping her hands together—breaking the stare you have with Cat, breaking the intensity with a shiver down your spine. Cat’s smiling, leaning in a little more to press a wet kiss to Caroline’s cheek.

“Okay, baby. Eats.” Cat steps back, turning slightly until she can press into your side—you feel the heat of her, the slight stick of her skin, the firmness of her stomach—your own belly flutters and flips. “Lunch time, supergirl.” She purrs, pressing a kiss to your cheek and you swoon—just a little—before watching her walk into the kitchen. Sway to her hips, jogging shorts covering next to nothing—once she’s out of sight, you exhale loudly.

“Car,” you whisper to your goddaughter as she pulls at your bottom lip. “That woman’s gonna be the death of me.”


	78. snap shot 78. ( 14, 30, 32, 45 )

**SNAP SHOT (JASON)**. _Everyone wants someone who understands. You're glad, so happy that there's someone who understands the cold thrum just beneath your skin, someone who feels the strange vibration in their bones just like you do. You're glad; but some part of you that's still a boy wishes it wasn't her, because she doesn't deserve it. To know how this feels._

* * *

With enough pressure, teeth pop out of a mouth with all the speed of a bag of M&M’s being torn open—left to skitter and scatter across the pavement into dark little crevices. Behind dumpsters and beneath cardboard boxes—there’s a million and one lost things in the alley ways of Gotham. Tangible things like wallets and watches—intangible things like innocence and naivety.

Lost things. Irremeable things.

The gangster beneath your fist doesn’t even know that he’s looking down the barrel of a gun—metaphorically, literally, it doesn’t really matter.

It never seems to matter.

You’re going to kill him.

He’d been part of the latest scheme to kill _the Batman_ some cluster of idiots piling stupid, on stupid, on stupid until they had something of a functional idea—a bus full of children and a bomb strapped to the accelerator. It was like a bad Sandra Bullock movie had some horrible love child with a seventies Bond film—when the bus ran out of gas, the bomb went _boom_.

If _you_ had been behind the scheme you would have picked the _rich_ academy across town—the one that had children of politicians and fortune-500 CEOs. People who actually had a chance to scratch together the fifty-million ransom requested for the safe return of their children.

But you weren’t involved in the scheming—no one even asked you.

It kind of hurt your feelings.

No, this particular brain-trust of villains had strapped their bomb to the undercarriage of children from the poorest public school on the south end. Kids with hand-me-down shirts and duct taped backpacks. Where the football field had only strips of fake grass in the predominant dirt lot, and the auditorium’s roof was half blue-tarp.

Public School 192—the school you were enrolled in, once upon a time.

“Did you wake up this morning thinking you were gonna die?” You ask, clenching your fist a little tighter and stepping back to allow the man to stagger loosely to his feet—he’s husky, and his face has turned into a mask of blood. You’d caught him after Batman had let him go—had saved the kids, and let the bus careen harmlessly into the harbor.

The Dark Knight _could_ have hunted down the men responsible, could have ended cruel idiots like this with no problem—but he was _better_ than that, he was more _noble_.

“Or did you think you had it all figured out?” You intone, walking a little to the side, making the man scramble away and trip over his two unconscious friends—you’d stripped them of their weapons and left them hoping for some intervention.

“Giants amongst men! Real problem-solvers.” _Thud_. You kick a glass bottle hard enough that it shatters against the wall just beside him. “Or were you just fucking stupid and didn’t realize you didn’t stand a fucking chance? Maybe this is some cry for help—maybe you don’t mean it. Maybe you’re _sorry_.” You’re glad you had that voice modulator installed—muffled threats were just so last year. You want them crisp, and sharp—easily understood.

“I’m sorry— _s-sorry_.” The man’s saying with hands up, his fingers are raw from where he scrabbled at the pavement, from where he tried to pluck the blade from his boot only to have it shoved right through his palm. He’s crying—the bastard’s _crying_. That alone makes you want to shove the knife you yanked from his hand through his eye socket.

“Yeah,” you sigh, because of course he is—everyone’s sorry when they’re caught. “I know you are.”

Exhaling a long breath and nodding, you pluck your semi-automatic from your belt and pull the trigger twice. _Pop,_ crack _, pop_. The slide’s a little loud, the kick’s minimal—your helmet tracks the bullets’ likely path—both destined to land between the man’s eyes. Closing your own eyes for the moment of impact, you try to dissolve the tension in your shoulders. The tension that’s been there since you were revived— _resurrected_ —since you ceased being who everyone _expected_ you to be.

You wait for the thud of a body hitting the ground.

It never comes.

Opening your eyes you expect Batman—except fluttering capes and a holier-than-thou frown.

But no, it’s someone else. Someone you haven’t seen in _years_.

“Jason.” Her fist is extended and you _know_ your bullets are in there. The hood pulled up over her head only allows one or two strands of blonde to escape, but the gangster behind her doesn’t even care—he’s tripping over himself to get away. Unwilling to help his compatriots, unwilling to look a gift-horse in the mouth. She turns, and there’s a blast of crimson across the alley—splashing color up on garbage and unconscious bodies alike—and the running man’s boots melt to the pavement. Heat vision—nice.

He’s mid-step which leaves him to tumbling to the ground once more.

“Spectre,” you greet—though this is leagues and miles away from the monster of your youth. She’s _tiny_ in comparison to the beast that still sometimes haunts your nights. Glowing eyes and impossible strength. “You’re a long way from home. Last I heard you were pretty fucking dead.”

 _Clink, clink_. The bullets fall out of her uncurling fist and bounce away into the trash.

“Misplaced,” she says.

She’s looking at you through the dark of her hood, through the haze that always seems to linger in Gotham’s air—you’ve breathed air at the tops of mountains, and from tanks at the bottom of the ocean. You see the differences now, you see the _filth_ lingering in just about everything this city has to offer. The sweatshirt she’s wearing is some commercial reproduction of Superman’s suit—red and blue, with a gold crest stamped on the front of her hooded sweatshirt.

“Little on the nose, don’cha think?” You say, gesturing to the sweatshirt.

“Hide in plain sight,” she says while adjusting her stance—it’s not anything you’re familiar with, not when it comes to _dangerous_ people. You can’t find any of the coiled tension, any of the readiness you’ve been taught to pin down—to pick out the monsters before they have the chance to strike. Monsters recognize monsters, that’s what you’d been told in those dark, dark nights following your resurrection.

She shuffles like she isn’t certain about her limbs—like a child growing into themselves, finding a stranger in their arms and legs. Unsure how to deal with height, and weight, and how that relates to the world around them. Her chin slowly lowers until it touches her collarbones and she jerks up like she’d found herself falling asleep. She’s blinking through the shadows of her hood—eyes that strange blue, blue that you’d thought beautiful as a teenager.

Back when she’d stop by for Wayne Enterprises galas, or just to give Bruce a hard time about something or another—she’d swallowtail in with no entourage, no fanfare. This self-made billionaire—then millionaire—that just _cared_. She grinned wide enough that you had started thinking _it_ was possible. To be whom Gotham needed, to be its protector, and not be as dark as then night itself—Bruce was light, the brightest light, his shadow stretching long and dark behind him.

A shadow you couldn’t seem to remove yourself from.

Even a decade later.

“You here to tell me that I’m better than this?” You press, because she’s just _watching_ you—following you with her eyes as you realize you’ve been pacing. “That there’s _another way_? Come on, Spec, tell me how I’m the good guy—the _hero_. That heroes don’t kill—heard it a thousand times before from the Big Guy.” You don’t need some sanctimonious do-gooder telling you how to protect your city, how to protect the people who don’t garner attention from the _heroes_.

The people like your mom, who suffered, and suffered, _and suffered_ , but no one ever cared because she wasn’t strapped to some bomb in City Hall. She was just a woman who no one cared about enough to protect—whose abusers got away with it because they were too careful, or knew exactly what loop-holes to slide on through. Men and women that needed to be afraid to stop—people who didn’t fear the Batman because they weren’t _that_ kind of evil.

Just the everyday kind— _normal_ evil, like there is such a thing.

“I’m not a little kid anymore, Spec! No need to pull your punches. Come on! Tell me what you think of me!” Because you’d always been afraid of that when you were younger—you were afraid that she’d stop smiling for you, that she’d look at you with disappointment and distance. Kara Callaghan had been up there with Bruce Wayne as two of the people you thought the world of—people with shoulders that held the world, who did things that seemed impossible. You’d go to sleep at night with teeth that ached because somehow it was _you_ who got to know them—who got to see behind the masks and the armor.

You used to tell yourself it was enough that you saw the people.

“I think you’re doing the best you can,” you can hardly hear her—her voice amplified by your helmet, echoing harshly to your ears. “That when you came back—everyone was different. The world was different. And you realized you didn’t fit how you once did.” She’s walking toward you, and it’s the first time you realize her feet are bare—tiny toes with chipped light-green polish. It fits so much of her right now—dark gray yoga pants, loose tee-shirt, unzipped Superman sweatshirt—but all of that fell apart when you saw her face within those shadows.

“You think about how _you’re_ different—how you feel, how you see things. Until you realize you’re not so different after all—you just can’t pretend anymore.” _Tap_. A can skitters across the pavement and she stops. Reaching up to pull her hood back and blinking those blue, blue eyes up at you. It feels wrong—it feels strange to be the one behind a metal mask—even when you’d grown up, before she died, you never felt large next to her. It had never been something about size—she was larger than life, after all.

“We’re not the same,” you protest—vehemently—because she can’t be the same as you. She _can’t_. Kara Callaghan was the hero you wished you were—who you aspired to be—who you let down in your mind when you have to wash the blood from your fingers. She _can’t be_.

“You don’t think I know how it feels to be angry? Or to be scared, and lonely, and confused?” Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile—you think how strange it is to not see her smiling. About how the frown sits too well on her face, settles too easily—like maybe it had always belonged there, just in moments there was no one there to see it. “But we’re not the same, Jason, we’re not.”

God, her _eyes_. They’re soft, and blue, and you feel like a monster and you _don’t like_ _it_. Not like you did a moment ago—not with the burning need to prove something that had you hitting the ground running every night.

“We’re not,” you agree, feeling that crawl beneath your skin that you can’t ignore—the chill that skitters through your heart. That feels wrong, and cold, and hollow—you think it’s something that didn’t come back with you when you were resurrected. Something human that didn’t have the luxury of returning with you—something that went missing when you died. Knocked out of you by the Joker’s crowbar—left scattered on the floor somewhere you’ll never see again.

“They didn’t replace you,” you simmer quietly, thinking about how Bruce hadn’t waited long—how there was a _new_ Boy Wonder the moment you got cold. How long had he mourned you? How long was your body in the ground before he moved on? “I was there when the buried you, Spec—no one there thought you were replaceable.” The biggest figures in your life were _shattered_ —heroes folded into black suits, with no masks to hide behind, mourning someone they could never tell the world to miss more than it already did.

“If someone you loved was killed—what would you do to the person who killed them?” You’re waiting for the answer that’ll condemn you. The answer that the Spectre and the Batman had in common—don’t kill.

Never kill.

Blinking, she smiles like she’s tired—like she’s lost something too. “I’d make them pay.”

You feel vindicated—smug, somehow, with the pain lingering in your chest.

“You’d send them off to live out the rest of their days in some prison? _Justice served_.”

She’s quiet, blinking slowly, before shrugging haplessly. “I’d kill them.”

Oddly—it’s not the answer you’re looking for. It’s not the validation for the burn in your chest that so much of you desires. There’s nothing to rage against, nothing to push back and decry because it’s ridiculous, and antiquated, and—and _—but_ she’s looking at you like she might understand. Like she too feels that pull in her chest that might’ve been something once. There might not be any cemetery dirt beneath her nails, but there’s something of a grave in her—something dead and gone.

“I’m not Bruce, Jason. I’m not afraid of the dark.” Kara says it with all the _knowing_ of just how dark it can get. You remember mindless nights wandering the city, feeling nothing except when you were making people bleed—you _were_ nothing, until you’d been shoved crown deep into the Lazarus Pit. Until all the bad came rushing back without forgiveness.

Until you remember chipped teeth and crowbars, explosives and final words.

Until you remember dying.

There’s a phone in her hand—a mobile phone that’s years out of style. One of the earliest touchscreens—something you can remember Bruce and Kara fawning over before one of their technology expos. The screen flashes and the picture is old too—Kara with a little boy on her shoulders, a tiger up against the glass of the exhibit behind them. Carter—her son—he’s a teenager now, you imagine.

 _Click_.

“…y _ou’re dead, and now he is too—Jason’s dead. It’s my fault, and I can’t—there’s no one left who would blame me, except myself. You asked me to look after him, you made me promise to protect him—I’m a fraud. And there’s no one left to realize that_.”

It’s Bruce’s voice—heavy and low, tinny from where it’s coming out of the speaker. You can see from where the phone it resting at her side that it’s a voice-mail—a recording left for her after she had died. Someone reaching out to someone who will never reach back—you wonder why you’d never thought of it. Why you’d locked yourself away when your idol died and promised yourself you’d be a little more like her if you could—you’d pull your punches, and mind your words. You’d do something to honor someone that was just— _gone_.

Dead.

 _Beep_.

“… _having trouble with those New Year’s resolutions? Club Fit’s having their annual 45% off_ …”

 _Click_.

The screen goes dark and the phone sits haplessly in her hand—her _small_ hand. She shorter than you remember—the crown of her head going no further than the tip of your nose. She’s thin, and pale, and you want to tell her it doesn’t matter what a self-absorbed man told a dead woman’s voice-mail. _It doesn’t_. But, it kind of does—because you miss the way she looked at you, like she got you more than she let on. Like she understood the anger, and the pain, and the need to lash out—Bruce got it, you _know_ he did, but he was afraid of it.

“Why didn’t he kill him?” You ask, and you don’t like how _young_ you sound, how pleading. But you want to know—you _need_ to know.

“It would have been too easy, and he doesn’t think he’ll come back.” _Back,_ like there’s someplace to actually go—someplace that you can visit. Someplace other than what lives inside you.

“But you stepped over that line—I watched the coverage. You kill.” Now, somehow gets lost on your tongue. It had been camera footage of a class of titans in Metropolis—Superman and some gray beast that seemed intent on destroying everything. You’d watched as a small figure in a very similar sweatshirt snapped the beast’s neck. Not because there was no other option—you’d seen the slow surrender in the creature’s arms, the struggle to breath and the drag in its step. The audio hadn’t been able to pick up the wet _pop_ of a breaking neck, but you’re familiar with it.

Too familiar.

She’s quiet. Both hands now shoved into the front pockets of her sweatshirt, her chin lowering and you can see how she’s biting her bottom lip—there’s a distance to her. A faraway-ness that’s strange and _other_. Like she’s simply stepped out of herself and wandered off without ever having to physically move. The air is thick, pressing down on your and you want to move away, want to slip back into the roiling chaos and dirty despair of your home—this horrible, beautiful city.

“When was the last time the dark felt safe?” She asks suddenly, blinking back into place, eyes bright and present. “When did the night stop feeling like anything was possible?”

You have no answer, not for her, but you know. It wasn’t when you were nine and your mother was diagnosed with a heart condition—it wasn’t when she’d cough up blood, and stop breathing in the middle of the night. It wasn’t when you were twelve and she died—when she was shoved into a crude box and tossed carelessly into the ground—it wasn’t the drawn paleness of your brother’s face when he tried being the adult, tried being a parent.

No—bad things happen, and sometimes they happen to good people.

No, it was when you were sixteen and you couldn’t _stop_. Your fists turning red with the blood of the man you’d been beating—a murderer, a rapist, a _monster_ —you could feel the cut of his teeth against your knuckles, hear the gurgle of his saliva rolling back into his throat. You felt godly, you felt _inevitable_ —that was until Bruce tugged you back and there had been such profound disappointment in his eyes. Disappointment and worry.

The dark stopped feeling safe when you realized it didn’t exist _just_ outside you.

You had so much of it in your heart already.

“I was twelve.” You wait for her to continue—you wait for her explanation—but she’s looking past you, soft and faraway. You know the story, _everyone_ knows the story, though only a handful know to pin it to her. A whole _planet_ , gone—her home, _gone_. You don’t know what you’d do if that ever happened to Gotham. It’s a _part_ of you, in ways that the Lazarus Pit or death couldn't pry away from you.

“Bruce feels safe in the dark.” You think of a careful man, with careful rules, and a reckless abandon in keeping those things true. “Do you think he would have died in your place if he had the choice?”

A man with hope he refuses to acknowledge, and faith he doesn’t speak. “He w—,”

You don’t know what you’re going to say, but she looks at you and the words die.

“Yeah,” you relent—you think of Bruce, with dark eyes and a smile you would have done anything for once upon a time. “Yeah, he would have.”

“That hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not his Boy Wonder anymore.” You grin, but you _know_ you’re just trying to be who you’ve made yourself. _The Red Hood._

“Oh, Jason.” She’s too close—just suddenly _there_ , half a step away, and you go to step back, to put distance between you, but she catches you by the shoulder. Fingers strong and small and you don’t try pulling away—not because you know you shouldn’t be able to, but because you know she’d never make you stay. _Psst_ , she’s pressing the latch at the edge of your jaw, the button that releases your helmet. The internal interface flickers to black and you’re left with a reflection of your face—pale, blue eyes, the white streak that never seemed to leave your dark hair.

Her palm is scalding hot against your cheek—your helmet plucked free and hanging limply at your side. She’s smiling up at you, brighter than any you’ve seen tonight—wide and happy, and you wonder where the frown goes when it isn’t on her lips. But you’re smiling too—leaning into the touch because this woman saved your life. Years, and years, _and years_ before you lost it—little pieces of her helped you be someone you could’ve been proud of once.

“You’re back,” you say softly, because you hadn’t really believed it.

Her thumb brushes your cheek, and it doesn’t matter that you’re half a hand taller—it doesn’t matter that you can pinpoint the place in your chest that’s ice cold and still a little dead. No, that’s all oddly faraway right now. Because Kara Callaghan is alive, and she still looks at you like someone she loves. “So’re you.”

“And you came to see me?”

Kara laughs—like it’s ridiculous—there’s an odd whistle to her voice, a lingering _something_ that you can’t place. “Of course I did. Had to see my favorite bird in Gotham.”

“I’m not Robin anymore, Spec.”

“You’ll always be my Robin.” It doesn’t feel like the box it might’ve from someone else—the constricting idea of trying to be who you were before grave dirt and pits of water spitting like madness. It’s a balm, an understanding—from someone who knows you’re not horribly different, even if you aren’t exactly the same. “Has nothing to do with a suit—or a name. Be whoever you want to be, Jason. All that matters is that you’re back.”

It’s your turn now to say, “so’re you.”

Kara grins—eyes that blue, blue you were enamored with when you were younger. “And let’s make the best of it. Alright?”

“Alright.”


	79. snap shot 79. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _There’s moments in a person’s life—snap shots—that never go away. First kisses and final storms. The forevers at either end and the integral maybes in the middle. You wished you could give away some of your points—the exact moments that shattered you, that threatened to ruin you—but you never will. Not for a single one of those maybes—not for first vacations, and fourths of July. Not for spring afternoons with a brand new heart beat, or the priceless grin of a toddler. You’ll keep the ruin, you’ll keep the hurt—it’s worth it. It’ll always be worth it._

* * *

You drive until the night cracks and the air goes bright.

You think about tipping into the bottle—of wrapping your anguish up around your ears until you could hear nothing but the cry of your heart, but you had been too restless for that. Like your very molecules were vibrating incessantly—buzzing beneath your skin, crackling along the backs of your knuckles. Everything feels wrong, and tight, and misshapen—like the world had simply inverted with no consideration for the people set upon it. _Oh, I’m sorry_ , as everything tumbles, and whorls, and cracks into pieces.

Like a million-billion stars.

Carter had finally fallen asleep—the feeling of his soft hair between your fingers lingering as you stagger into the living room. You can’t ignore the static in your teeth, the dull hum living in your heart and vibrating against your bones. Alex watches you pluck up your keys warily. Her impossibly bright eyes blistering in the dark as you simply—stood there. Teetering at the edge of exhaustions, moon pale and shaking—like you might simply…blink away. Cease to be between one moment and the next.

“Do I have to worry about you doing something stupid?” Alex had asked with an even calm you envied—she’d always been so wonderfully together, even when that was nothing close to the truth. You want to scream, and sob, and be someone other than who exactly you are—for just _one moment_ , just _one_. Maybe in another life, in another world, but here—as it were—you have to simply watch your life shatter. Watch how the pieces are dashed across the ground; lost, and scattered, and brittle.

You want to rage, and scoff, and decry her words—want to sneer at how she is being patronizing and all manner of unpleasant things. “I—,” but she is _exactly_ who has the right to ask.

This woman who tried her hardest to pick you up when you shattered last—clumsily shoving your pieces together in all manner of malformed ways. But she’d _tried_ , and that had allowed you to gather yourself. Fit edges back where they belonged, minded the new ones that had formed—she’d saved you in her own way.

“No,” you breathe, your keys biting into your palm as you step closer, watching how her eyes flicker to the door down the hall where a certain doppelganger resides. “No—I just need to clear my head.” You hug her then—the way you learned to with Marion, not too tight, not too loose—to show how much you care, even if you sometimes forgot to put it into words. Ironic, considering how you made your empire. A silent _I love you_ that you’d been taught over, and over, and over by the unlikeliest of people.

“We’ll get her back,” Alex promises in your ear, every piece of her a believer.

What a horribly unkind thing to be—a believer.

You want to say _how long this time_ , but those words live inside you like a festering dead thing. A horrible slice of you that lingers in the dark and refuses to step into the light. You’d walked through a thousand lives to find her last time—shattered worlds where your mother loved you right, and your father never died, and you didn’t fall in love with a comet on a collision course.

So, instead, you say, “we always do.”

And walk out the door.

You grew up thinking you knew exactly what pain was—you thought it was pretending to be someone you weren’t for people that didn’t matter. You thought it was looking into your mother’s eyes and seeing cold appraisal and conditional love. You thought it was the quiet of a hallway at fourteen, the machines no longer _beeping_ along with the heart of the man you loved most—until your sons, until your adoptive grandfather, until you had so much love you no longer thought about it like a competition to be won. There was no finish line, there was no prize—love eclipsed, and warmed, and it was worth it all on its own, for as long as you could have it.

You know pain. You’re familiar with the ache, with the burn, with the _anger_.

But this is somehow all together worse.

It’s _nothing_.

There’s a place in your chest carved out in the shape of her—an empty nothing that crawls and drags itself through your body, over your heart, when you least expect it. When you close your eyes at night and you suddenly can’t remember if you’re alive at all—your mind lost to the emptiness left in her wake. The cold nothing that was left in her absence. You don’t realize how much you’d come to rely on the warmth of her in your chest—reminiscent of how her skin burns to the touch, alien and comforting. No matter where she was on the planet

But she’s not on this planet anymore.

So you drive.

The steering wheel hard and smooth beneath your palms—sliding easily as you navigate through the streets that never quite empty, regardless of what time it is. The neon washing through the tint of your windows, the bright lights glinting off the obnoxious yellow paint of the car Clark had convinced you to buy—something with far too many cylinders, and an engine that growled instead of purred. The sound of it mingles with the late night revelry, with the tacky music seeming to play around the edge of every corner—with the strobing vibration lingering beneath the soles of your feet at every red light.

And you do seem to catch every red light.

It takes you almost two hours to get to Barstow, to get out of the lingering skylines and claustrophobic cityscapes—the mountains slope, and peak, and grin through the lingering black like sad and sinister monsters. Miserable beasts that turned to the dark simply because they didn’t wish to be sad anymore—you think yourself going mad when one mountain curve looks a little too much like a Cheshire grin, so you tap the screen and let your mobile connect.

There’s a pause, a moment tossed up into the air—lingering.

“Hey, it’s Kara—but you already know that. I mean, you’re calling me—right? Anyway! Leave a message and I’ll call you back. I promise! Have a good d—”

You don’t say anything, tapping the button on the steering wheel to hang up—the call cutting through the last word of her voicemail. Pressing again.

 “Hey, it’s Kara—but you already know that. I mean, you’re calling me—right? Anyway! Leave a message and I’ll call you back. I promise! Ha—”

 _Click_. Press.

“Hey, it’s Kara—”

 _Click_. Press.

“Hey, it’s Kara—”

The world’s gone flat and distant, far away and empty in a way that makes you feel larger than you are—you’re here, flying through the dark like a bullet that’s slipped its leash. Obliterating legal speeding limits, chewing up miles at an alarming rate—you don’t know how far you’ve gone, but your car knows.

Two-hundred fifty-eight miles.

Not far enough.

The buzzing in your teeth clicks, and slinks, and fissures like a terribly missed rot—something that starts at the center and yawns its way outward. Swallowing parts of you bit, by bit, by bit—and something in the muddled dark of your mind makes you think you can _out run_ the ruin. Like absolute desolation had some street address, some physical location—a proximity warning that could be circumvented.

But it could never be as simple as that—running had never been the answer. But you can’t stop yourself, can’t slow down even when passing an abandoned gas station with one lonely police cruiser sitting haphazardly in the parking lot. Lights off and tucked away for the night—you don’t even think to look in your rearview mirror for headlight, can’t look anywhere but the empty flat before you. Press.

“Hey, it’s Kara—”

 _Click_. _Click_. Your voicemail flashes dark on the screen, a jumble of calls from the last day, week, month, year—all scrambling together. You pick the most recent one.

“ _Zrhueiao_ , maybe you were right, we shouldn’t have told your mother anything. She’s making me help her move—why is she moving back to National City? Not that I’m not all for it! Ally and Carter love their grandma, it’s just—Cat, she has so many boxes. I didn’t—[ _muffle, rustle_ ] what? No, no—I’m—I’ll be right there. No! I’m so on board—you don’t even _know_ how on board. [ _Whisper_ ] Cat, help me.”

 _Click_. Press.

“Mom, when are you—”

 _Click_. Press.

“Cat, the sink’s making that weird noise again—don’t worry, I fixed it. Okay, I kind of fixed it—it’s making a _different_ noise now, but it’s—I don’t know. I kind of like it. [ _Crash_ ] I—I’ll fix that too. Love you!”

 _Click_.

The first signs of light begin grinning through the black—purple, and pink, and orange. Splitting the night like fissures of color, pressing through the dark. It fades slowly, and then all at once—but you’ve gotten where you want to go. The first hints of blue linger at the horizon as you step from your car—engine still growling, yellow paint blistering in the actual light of morning. You’re stiff, and ache in every joint—every muscle, but you’re awake in a way you haven’t been for the last few days. The flight back to National City, the late nights at the office, the kisses to your daughter’s head and your son’s cheek. You sleep walked through it all, lingering at the edge of consciousness—until now.

The canyon lay wide and inevitable—miles wide and eons long, you lean palms against the chilled railing. Freshly painted, bright red and incongruent with your memory—but the distant peaks don’t taunt you, they linger like promises in your mind as you blink awake. Like the whole world existed somewhere in the craggy _everything_ that is the Grand Canyon—it had always made your skin itch, seeing something that had happened over a million-billion years, or whatever. But now it’s hopeful—it’s a foregone conclusion.

_This happened, and this happened, and this happened—and here we are._

“I’m getting her back,” you promise the empty air, your voice soft and low—linger just at the tip of your tongue—there’s no one here, not a soul present for your needlessly verbal declaration. But it feels like a weight, like a stone lifted from your heart—water sloshing out of your lungs. You can _breathe_ again. You recall your thought as Alex had promised the same thing— _how long this time_. “And it sure as fuck isn’t taking ten years!” Another pound of stone, another gallon of water—your voice echoing into the canyon below.

You don’t really believe in a higher power, but maybe only because you’d never stopped long enough to think about it, to relish in the comfortable idea that everything happened for a reason. But even if that was so, even if all of this was _meant_ to happen, you’re through with it. You’re done with the _this happened, and this happened, and this happened._ You don’t care how many corners you have to blunt, and sharpen, and edge until they fit into slots they ideally shouldn’t—you’re taking hold of fate with your own two damned hands.

But fate’s a little less corporeal than you’d like, so you grab stones—red, and rusty, and heavy that scratch along the lines of your palms.

 _This happened,_ “she _will_ know her daughter!” A rock tossed into the earth’s maw.

 _And this happened,_ “she _will_ see Carter graduate!” Another stone.

 _And this happened,_ “she _will_ watch Clark get married!” A bigger one, oddly shaped and flat.

The last one, the largest still—the size of your palm, warmer than it should be given how it had only just turned morning. There’s a cold still lingering at its edges, and you worry your fingers over the rough spots. You don’t have something for this last one. You’d wait a thousand lifetimes for her—and you had, in some weird way. You know it won’t matter if it _did_ take another ten years because she’s it for you—she’ll _always_ been it for you.

Even when you’re stupid—even when you’re broken—even when you’re the last one standing.

You can only think of the burning red of her mind as she’s ruined, and tore, and sneered—how it strangled, and snarled, and threatened to pull her completely under every second it was inside her. How you felt her worry, felt her resignation as she tipped into oblivion— _I deserve this_ , she’d thought as she was swallow whole.

“She _will_ know we forgive her—that we don’t blame her.” The stone slips, creeping over the tips of your fingers, inching away. “That we love her.” You’re not yelling anymore, it’s an edgeless whisper as the stone tips into the canyon, cracking along the side until you can’t hear it anymore. “That I love her.”

_And here we are._


	80. snap shot 80. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [canon/38]

**SNAP SHOT (TOMMY)**.  _Sometimes you don't think it's worth it to live in National City—there's some new horror lurking around every corner. Sometimes you think of moving somewhere quiet, somewhere no on's heard of—but you can never do it. You fell in love with this city, fell in love in this city. You wouldn't trade it for the world—monster/alien problems be damned._ **for gabby, happy birthday. 8)**

* * *

“… _National City’s transit is finally up and operational for the first time since the incident. Residents of Downtown are advised that only stops down Lexington and 4 th are available. City officials hope to have further lines open by the first of the month_…” You turn the volume down before the waxy artificial twenty-something can say anything more—his pale brushed lips moving silently, his studio bright eyes squinting.

The television flickers and the crater six blocks to your west appears—smoking and deep. You know it must be from directly after “ _the Incident_ ”—caught by one of CatCo’s choppers, no doubt—because the red and blue lights splash liberally across every piece of debris.

Word was Supergirl went into the ruin and didn’t come out—invincible alien or not, you don’t much like the idea of a young girl running into all manner of trouble. You’d never met her personally and that was something you thank your unlucky stars for—but it didn’t really matter.

Your mother taught you to spot good people—and Supergirl? She was good people.

“City’s going to hell in a handbasket,” you murmur while watching the quick-time fast-forward of the city’s efforts of cleaning up the mess. Rubble removed, search and rescue performed—more bodies than you liked to think about, but forced yourself to because someone had to. Scaffolding went up, private construction crews folding in beside the City hired ones—work moving faster than you’re used to. Sixth Street had been under construction for the better part of two years—but that was sewer installation, not alien terrorism.

 _Ring_. It’s really only surprise that has you looking at the door—you didn’t expect any foot traffic until the jack hammers down the street stopped. Add to that the torrential unseasonable downpour and you’re doubly surprised. Squinting—because you refuse to admit you might need glasses—you can make out a hunched form slinking along the front wall and through pockets of shadows.

“Anything I can help you with?” You’re not supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be across town in a “mandatory” volunteer therapy session, but you couldn’t look into the doctor’s too sympathetic eyes any longer without having some kind of mental-episode. You imagine having a breakdown in National City’s Veteran Affairs hospital would probably reflect poorly on your overall mental health record. More-over they’d call your wife and she’d probably have a good ten, to twelve, things to tell you about proper healing.

Something to do with talking about your _feelings_ —which is half the reason she’d strong armed you into signing up for the volunteer sessions. You blame the news letters that circulate to the families of those who’ve enlisted and ended up in a warzone—the horror stories of the ones that can’t let the war stay overseas. You tell her you’re not like that—that you’re as sound as a boy from the hard side of Boston can be. A little rough, a little uncouth—but she knew that when she married you.

As safe as houses.

You don’t like to think about kids in deserts with sunken eyes and shaking hands—you try not to think about IED explosions and friends who were shipped back in boxes draped with the red, white and blue.

“Ma’am?” Stepping out from around the counter, you try to unline your shoulders and relax your posture, but the service goes right down to the bone. Lives in you in a way that used to make you proud.

Maybe still does—most days.

The woman doesn’t turn around right away, but the way she leans forward on the bookshelf lets you know she heard you. Tall, thin—wearing clothes that had no hope of matching. Flip flops in late September weren’t the strangest fashion statement, but it wasn’t _common_. She’s dripping on the floor, making a spreading puddle beneath her Old Navy flops.

“Lem’me get you a towel, ma’am.” She isn’t shivering but you can’t imagine it isn’t cold—the air conditioner might not be on, but you refuse to turn the heat on before thanksgiving. Kicking through the paper you’d carelessly tossed on the ground behind the counter, you find the brightly colored beach towel that you know your son had left here before he went searching for his hooligan friends and their wayward adventures.

You sound impossibly loud beside her silence—boots clomping, gum popping, clothes rustling—but then again, you sound pretty loud compared to everyone. _A soldier’s step_ , your father would say. Extending the towel when you get close enough to let the tip of your right boot step into the growing puddle around her feet.

“Here,” you insist when she still doesn’t turn, “you’ll catch a cold.” You don’t think that’s actually true, but you know not to believe everything you hear on youtube. You consider dropping the towel onto the shelf beside her and leaving her be—she must be one of those yuppie college kids that like to peruse in silence—but just as you’re about to give up, a delicately boned hand takes the towel from your slackening fingers.

“Thanks,” her voice isn’t low—but it’s soft. She toys with the towel, tugging and scrunching, but never really using it for the reason you intended.

“You looking for anything in particular?” You probably won’t be much help—you can never find anything, ever—but something makes you offer the assistance. Hands folding into your pockets, you rock a little back onto your heels as she half-turns to face you. Dark blonde hair hanging limp and soaked in front of bristling blue eyes—robin egg blue, that’s how your mother would have described them. A woman with a proper name for every color in nature. There’s something pale and withdrawn about this customer, and you want to ask her if she’s alright—if she needs some kind of help.

“Not really, just—,” blue eyes move up and over your head, searching despite her words. “—just getting out of the rain.” Trailing over the sign you know sits over the counter, she stops and her lips press together. Tight enough that they lose what little color they have, going pale and pinched.

“Fair enough,” you say while taking half a step back, debating on if you should leave her be and just go about doing what you’re supposed to be doing—which really isn’t much of anything except pretending you know what you’re supposed to be doing. “Take all the time you’d like—word is the rain won’t be letting up for quite a while.”

Another step, smiling as she watches you—there’s _something_ about her, but you can’t really put your finger on it. Maybe it’s the blue of her eyes, or the way her eyebrows pinch in the middle. “I, hey, I got to ask.” You concede because you’re really the worst at not saying exactly what you mean, “do I know you? You seem really familiar.” Maybe it’s the gold-blonde of her hair, or the line of her jaw. There’s a million reasons someone can look familiar, but you can’t decide what it is.

You feel like you know her, even though nothing’s coming to mind—just a pretty young blonde with wartime eyes and poor choice of almost-autumn footwear.

“No,” she says it with absolute certainty, and you have always had a fickle relationship with _absolutes_ —and now is no different, because she’s looking at you like she might know you too. Like there’s something she _isn’t_ saying. “I—No, you don’t.”

You’re not sure, but you don’t want to be a bother—don’t want to make her take her chances out in the storm, so you smile and nod. Maybe you’ve seen her when you went to the school for your children—though she doesn’t look old enough to have a teenager. Calvin would have definitely pointed her out if she was a teacher, and you don’t think she’s anyone’s older sibling—Sammy’s friends all have older brothers.

You’ll think on it.

You watch how she rubs the towel between her hands, scrunching it and then pulling—pressing the fabric to her eye-sockets and then her lips. You want to tell her that everything’ll be alright, that nothing is that bad—but you know that’s a lie. You know that the world can ruin a person as quietly as anything else—silent nights where voices are supposed to be, and empty afternoons where whole people should lurk. You think about blistering skylines in places across the world and how no one expected anything _but_ the back of a hand—children with wide accepting eyes, resigned down to their bone.

“Do you believe in alternate realities?” The words startle you, they make you jump and you curse yourself for drifting off.

“Holy Christ, girl!” You holler while pressing a hand to your chest where you’re heart’s jack-rabbiting and you know your eyes are a little wild. She’s standing on the other side of the counter, the towel balled up in her hands, hair pushed back behind her ears—you can really look at her for the first time.

If you look past the smooth _youngness_ of her face, you see something hard-won and old in her eyes, it was the look that you’d gotten pretty good at recognizing those last years with your mother—a woman who lost memories like most people did house keys. It was the look she had in the few and far-between lucid moments—the times when she awaited the emptiness, when she knew she’d lose something dear. What had this girl lost? What was just out of her reach?

“Alternate realities?” You ask, because you’re pretty sure Calvin’s obsessed with _the multi-verse_ , but you don’t know if that’s just relegated to a niche corner of internet lurkers.

“Worlds like this one that are—different. In small ways—and large ones.” Calvin’d explained it as such—worlds like this one, but _different_. A world where you never enlisted, a world where you lived during World War II, a world where your ponce of a brother won a Pulitzer, a world where your wife and the kids had gone to Canada that weekend— _a world, a world, a world_. You had never really given it much thought, even when your son had gone on, and on, _and on_ —Samantha even chiming in to declare there had to be one where they won the lottery.

 _Million-billionaires_ , she’d said.

“Shit,” you exhale, “I guess. Aliens seemed a big leap once upon a forever ago, but now they’re pretty run of the mill. Why draw the line at alternate realities?” Like a worm the idea digs, and digs, and digs—you think of branching choices, and where they could’ve brought you. Who you’d be in them—if you hadn’t gotten that job at the mechanics, if you hadn’t laughed your ass off as your brother nursed his broken nose—if you hadn’t spent hours, and hours, and hours learning how to tell a girl she was beautiful in French.

And utterly failing.

“And if I told you we knew each other in another reality?” She looks ready to dash away, ready to bolt at the first poor reaction, and it makes you swallow the bubbling laugh in your chest. _I know you_ , burbles like acid in the pit of your stomach, and you really can’t put your finger on why. Can’t tie down some explanation for the knee-jerk need to make the sadness in her eyes less—your wife tells you that you’re a soft touch with an old soul, but this is ridiculous.

“I’d say,” you don’t know exactly, but you see the way her eyes chase away—toward the door, toward escape. “I’d say—well, shit—I’d say glad to meet you in this one.” Hand outstretched, fingers loose like your father taught you, eyes smiling like your mother showed. “I’m Tommy; though I guess you know that already.”

God, her smile. It brightened everything about her face—like she’d swallow just a bit of the sun and it had finally started peeking out through her pores. Bright, and warm, and—it made your chest tighten. Just a little, a lot like when your daughter laughs, or your son tells a particularly bad joke. Or your wife—shit, anything your wife does makes your chest ache in that good and grounding way.

Her fingers curl around yours and it’s the loosest handshake you’ve ever had. “Kara.” Is all she says, but it’s the _way_ she says it. Like there’s a million things she’s said already and she just doesn’t know how to explain herself. Do you believe in alternate realities? Why not? You’ve seen some of the worst this world has to offer and you’d like to think there’s a better one out there—where little men in big offices decided _not_ to go to war, where people stopped and asked themselves _one last time_ if the destruction was worth it.

You like to think she’s from that world.

“It’s a pleasure, Kara.”

Towel folded carefully, fingers straightening each and every side, she exhales and looks up. She smiles—a little smaller now—and takes a few backward steps away—like she can’t believe she found you, like you’re someone she doesn’t want to let slip away. _I’ll be here_ , you want to say to this virtual stranger, but you keep that to yourself. “I’ll see you around, Tommy.”

Maybe you really are incapable of keeping your thoughts to yourself. “I’ll be here.”

* * *

It’s only a day before she returns—a few hours really—you’ve convinced your wife that you’re the _best_ helper she’ll ever find, and while she rolls her eyes and sasses at you in French under her breath, she hadn’t made you tuck tail and go home just yet. She’s out at the store with your daughter, Samantha, and you shake away the thought that it had almost been _you_ who had to go dress shopping. You’re of the mind that she should be covered from head to toe at all times—but, you’re nice and modern about it. You think Calvin should be completely covered to—no girlfriends, no boyfriends; for _either_ of them.

Blue skies, no construction—it wasn’t often California felt like autumn in September.

 _Ring_. She looks better today. You can see the difference even though you’ve only seen her once before—dark polo, denims that had probably seen better days and didn’t look like they belonged to her—an inch or two too short at the ankle—and those ridiculous sneakers with the little zip pouch. Neon green and pink. Nice.

“Kara,” you greet with a smile—arms full like you’d just been about to do something. _Looking_ busy was easy, you just had no actual idea where to put the things you picked up. Which usually meant they got stacked on the counter and left there.

“Tommy.” She returns, hands shoved in pockets, face obscured by glasses—black frames, thick lenses. Her hair isn’t soaked today—half-curled like Samantha usually styles hers, you think it look nice, though you probably don’t know a single word to accurately compliment it. Bouncy?

“What can I do you for?” Everything in your arms tips too easily into the box beside you, allowing you to lean forward on the counter and grin at her. _Lighter_ isn’t the word you’re looking for—but it’s pretty damn close. Like maybe a few days have allowed her to make some sense of the world—you imagine it’d take you ages longer to figure _anything_ out.

The world’s big, and messy, and beyond the understanding of a high-school drop out with one too many purple hearts—you could understand war to a point. Everyone had a reason, everyone had something on the line—that’s how wars happened. They aren’t always good reasons, and they aren’t always virtuous—but they’re there. Blaring and obvious, even if no one will say them out loud.

“I went for a walk, and I found myself here.” She says absently, rubbing the back of her neck out of habit—you can tell it because she balks and then shoves the hand back into her pocket.

“We’re having a two for five sale,” you offer, thumb jabbing toward the hastily scratched sign you’d made this morning.

“On?” Kara’s smiling a little, but it’s tight and far-away—physically there, but nothing filling in the bits behind the eyes. No brightness, no light. You don’t like it.

“Well, I didn’t really get that far into the sale planning,” the paper is taped above a bin that you’d dropped multiple armfuls from the weekly order into. _Idea_. “Obviously,” you drawl, all knowing intent, “it’s everything in that there box of mystery. Go a‘riffling and see what you might uncover.” Cue spooky wiggling fingers, and the grin you daughter says makes you look like an awkward PTA father—you’d take offense, but you’d looked at yourself in the mirror and really had to agree.

Kara laughs—God, her laugh. It makes her look younger, like years have been etched out of her in a way that has nothing to do with laugh lines and wrinkles. No, it’s in the way she sways with it—embodying the laugh, and you feel proud for getting it; even if it will only be this once. She’s grinning when she says, “you’re pretty proud of yourself for that, aren’t you?”

“Oh, very much so.” You agree, leaning your chin in your palm, other hand waving vaguely. “And my wife always tells me I’m a hopeless small business owner.”

She stops, looking at you with wide eyes behind half-smudged glasses. Closer than she was a moment ago, only a foot or two from the counter—you don’t know what exactly you said that surprised her, but it’s right there in the half curl of her fingers. Like she’s so close to something she’s always wished to touch; inches, or steps, instead of miles and whole lifetimes. You’ve felt like that—when you let the weight of your rucksack slide from your shoulder, and you envelope your children in your arms. It’s harder to fit them now, but that’s alright—you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

You don’t mind having to keep trying—you’ll hug them every chance you get.

“Your wife?” She asks—soft as a butterfly’s wing.

“Mhm,” you smile, because you can’t _not_ smile when talking about your family.

Her eyes are bright and so blue behind her glasses, and you want to ask her who makes her smile—what steals the haunt from her eyes. But you don’t want to step on any toes, don’t want to crack her in places that might very well break. Smile’s aren’t supposed to be silly fragile things, but you know that sometimes there’s no way to help it—no way to get around smiling through the hurt, because doing anything else might just be the end.

Kara doesn’t say anything else, but she does pick up everything you’d haphazardly left on the counter and puts them where they ought to belong—up on shelves, at the bottom of bins.

Doesn’t have to ask you once where something goes.

* * *

“You miss your universe?” You ask while looking over the counter to where Kara sat perched at the window—some circular contraption sitting in her lap. It looked complicated and important—it whirred and beeped every once in a while, but she didn’t seem to pay it much mind. She’s stopped by every afternoon—just before your kids got home from school, just after your wife went for her afternoon jog. You know she really spends the whole time chatting with the nosy women from Church, but it makes her happy, which is more than you can ever ask for.

Sometimes she doesn’t say anything, sometimes she just splintered and lingers and holds all that _something_ inside her. You want to tell her nothing good comes from keeping that kind of bad inside, but you’re nothing to her—just some middle-aged high-school drop out with too many years logged in a war-torn desert. You’re hardly the best role model.

Kara’s head snaps around so fast it’s the one half-second between blink—blue eyes blistering and coiled tight like a spitting snake. Jaw clenched properly, nostrils flared—but she deflates. Quick and absolute—it’s in the curl of her shoulders and the way her hands flex and loosen. You want to tell her that it’s none of your business that she doesn’t have to tell you anything that she isn’t comfortable with. You _are_ halfway to saying something along those lines, but she’s talking—you almost miss it for how quietly she speaks.

“More than anything,” almost lost to the construction down the road.

“You can—,” she’s watching you, “you can get home, right?”

You think that might be it—that might be the dry blue of her eyes, that might be the drawn _something_ in her face that you couldn’t exactly pin down. The desire for home—the twisting pain of being knowingly lost, of being far away from familiar faces and safe places. You’d seen the look time and again—that sweet madness that drives, and spurs, and ruins, without consideration. Maybe _that_ was what made her familiar—her eyes sit the same yours did once upon a forever ago.

Before your wife, before your children— _before, before, before_.

Maybe she’s yet to realize there’s an _after_ too.

“There’s a way,” the contraption in her lap clinks as she lifts it and turns it over in her hands. “I just—I don’t know how.”

Fear—faint as dime-store perfume, touching just the edges of your senses. Kara’s afraid, of what, you probably will never know without asking—and you sure as shit aren’t going to that. But you also can’t just leave her be with it—no bed-fellow could be worse that cold, untouchable fear.

“Well,” breath—in, out, in, out—one moment, two moments. “What’re we gonna do, kiddo?”

She looks at you with a whip-quick turn of her head. Like she’s seen a ghost, proper and scary, and something bristles on the back of your neck—you mother used to say someone was walking over your grave, but you don’t rightfully believe that. Old women say insane things when their mind starts going and everything becomes an endless mystery.

“We?” She asks, one foot falling to rest on the ground, torso beginning to turn until she reminds herself that she’s far away—not physically, but wherever she goes in her mind when you’re puttering about behind the counter.

“Can’t rightfully let you faff about in a world that ain’t your proper one,” you drawl, standing up straight, thumbs tucked through the loops of your pants, rocking back on your heels like your wife tells you not to. Something about poor posture and your chiropractor. “You need a tour guide. And—I’ll let you know, I got a mighty fine sense of direction.”

She’s crying—Gods above, she’s crying. Those big silent ones that Samantha’s prone to when things get too much and everything goes a-crumbling. The kind that Calvin chokes back because the world tells him boy aren’t meant to cry—one day you hope he’ll believe you that there isn’t anything weak in tear, in being overwhelmed. Feeling’s what make you human—what makes everyone human.

Even this universe hopping girl silently crying before you.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You’re around the counter and she tumbles into your arms like she’s been there before and you feel like a piece you weren’t looking for has been returned. Not a puzzle, nothing so contrite—but like maybe your collection would look better with one more like-piece. “You let it out now—you’ve been keeping it inside this while, haven’t you?” Kara’s grip threatens to crack you clean in halves, but you only wrap your own arms around her tighter—she’s tall, easily eye to eye, but it doesn’t change how she half-curls. Clutching at you like she might rightfully shatter into a million-billion pieces.

As many pieces as there are stars in the sky.

“I got you,” you whisper—knowing in your heart of hearts that you mean it. “I got you.”

* * *

“I talked to my son today, or—or a version of him.” She seems empty—listless and adrift, “he was at the Grand Canyon.” Light eyes lighter by the moment as she tugs at the ugly yellow shirt—it did indeed say Grand Canyon across the front. A dusty hat being wrung between her hands as she inhales deeply.

You didn’t know she had kids—how did you not _know_ —but you keep that down and away. Breathe in through your nose and exhale through your mouth. “I didn’t know you had a son.” Softly, because you’re still afraid she might fly from your life without any word—it’s the flash of _something_ in her eyes that borders on animal. Fight or flight, fight or flight.

“Two sons, and a daughter.” Blinking through the thoughts, she looks up and you want to tell her you’re alright. “And a wife.” There’s that worry of flight, but she says it with undeniable love—her family means the world to her. They’re her world like your family is yours. “I saw her, but I—I couldn’t. Because she’s—she’s not _my_ Cat.” The names makes you raise a brow, but you can gather that _Cat_ is her wife.

“It hurt,” you guess—though you know it isn’t a _guess_ , because you can’t imagine seeing your wife and _not_ hugging her, _not_ kissing her. You don’t even want to begin to understand what it must be like to love someone you don’t know—but something inside you tells you that you already do. You don’t really _know_ Kara, but you feel like you do. Like maybe something in your bones remembers her lifetime—the one where she knew you. “You’re going to get home, Kara. You are.”

You find yourself believing in things more these days.

In the impossible, in the improbable.

In the day to day.

* * *

“I met a girl,” you say, and your therapist looks at you with _interest_. She’s a hard woman, uncompromising and yet she’ll forgive you all your flaws—maybe because she’s paid to, maybe because her own man in uniform paid the final price for freedom. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But you’ve always toed the line of being willfully disobedient in your sessions—saying just enough, never volunteering, there in body if not mind. She’s looking at you like you’ve finally said something of interest—a _breakthrough_ , you wonder.

“Oh? Where did you meet this girl?” No scribbling pen, no fiddling with her glasses—just steady dark interested eyes.

“The store.” You can’t take it back now—can’t backpedal and _never mind_ your way out of this. The perked eyebrow makes you scowl, “get your head out of the damned gutter. It’s nothing like that. She’s a kid.” She really isn’t—but sometimes she reminds you of your children, or the young men you commanded in wars across the world—other times she seems older than anything. Old, and tired, and _something_ you couldn’t define. “I’ve been trying to help her find her family.”

 _Family_. It’s a topic the good doctor likes poking at when you actually do show up, and you know you’re just cracking the gates open—letting her mind her ponderings. But it’s worth it, you think, if it’ll help Kara.

“They’re lost?” She asks.

“I—well,” you hum and rub your ankle with the rough bottom of your boot. “I think she’s the lost one.”

It’s been three weeks and sometimes she stumbles into the store just before closing looking like she’s breaking at her edges—cracking and unable to gather them all before they hit the ground. You want to punch this _cousin_ of hers in the nose for how she seems after seeing him. You’d asked her half a dozen ways if he was hurting her—if you needed to call the cops, but she’d just shake her head and breath deep. You got the feeling it wasn’t anything physical, but not all hurts come with bruises.

At least not ones you can see.

“Oh?” The _go on_ is all but implied.

“I—I think she lost herself. Did something she can’t rightfully forgive herself for.” People do that, you know—lose themselves. In the bottle, in a powder, in ninety hour work weeks and missed holidays—you suppose someone could lose themselves to another universe.

“What makes you believe that?” Always with the questions, always with the near-silent scribble of notes.

“She misses them—her family. You can see it—I don’t know—in her eyes. But she’s worried, scared.” No one should be afraid of love. It the same look you get in the middle of the night when the lights are out and the passing flash of headlights cuts across the tired line of your eyes—worried you’re someone you wife might not recognize in the morning. Someone that she’ll turn away from. You’ll never admit it, you’ll never be able to put it into words like you do in your mind—because they seem like silly worries when you say them out loud, even to the dark of the bathroom. Silly, but horribly so.

“Do you think you’re helping her because she reminds you of yourself?” Said so casually, wrist half-rolled like this might not be the exact revelation she’d been dancing about for the last few weeks—every time you mention an out-reach program or a school event. “That—maybe—if you help her, you can help yourself?”

It’s the kind of psychological bullshit that usually keeps you away from these mandatory volunteer sessions, but there’s something of a truth to it. Something bristling and bright in your heart.

You can’t help asking, “Would that be so bad?”

* * *

It’s storming again.

“There’s a Lord Technologies here!” Kara exclaims the moment she burst through the door—dripping wet from another storm and sporting both Mickey Mouse sunglasses and a black Disney Paris shirt. She’s soaked to the bone but grinning—it’s such a nice grin, a little mischievous, a little rash. Reminds you a little of your brother—the rakish prick that he is. Samantha and Calvin both stop what they’re doing—homework, you think—and stare. You suppose it’s a sight if it wasn’t so usual—no shoes, sopping wet, hair somehow tossed even while plastered to her head.

“Biggest building in the skyline,” you say, “next to CatCo, I reckon.”

“I—I can come back,” she stammers, still frozen in the doorway, hand preventing the door from closing—the storm is raging outside. Thundering and clattering, and you don’t realize she actually _is_ leaving, until she’s half out the door. Hopping down, you catch her by the shoulder and direct her inside—under the weight of both of your children’s stares.

“Nonsense. It’s raining something fierce outside, and you know how I feel about that, kiddo.” You smack Calvin on the shoulder when you walk past, and your fourteen year old quickly vacates his seat and offers it to Kara, who declines—until Calvin makes a show of sprawling on the ground, textbook on chest. Smug little shit— _your_ smug little shit, you guess. Grabbing a towel from the back, you drape it over Kara’s head with a grin. Your sixteen year old daughter is regarding Kara with you wife’s hazel eyes—and you’d be worried about her saying something uncouth if she wasn’t such a damned delight.

“These are my kids—Calvin, Samantha.” They both lift a hand in greeting, Kara just stares. “Kids, this is Kara. She’s been helping out a bit while she’s in town.” She smiles, that shaky unsure expression that seems to claw back with vengeance every time you think you’ve gotten rid of it. There’s a silence that settles—Samantha looking busy with her phone, Calvin nose deep in a textbook you _know_ he isn’t reading. Somehow you didn’t think these worlds would collide—a silly thought, really—but it seemed so perfect bisected. You helped Kara, then you went home.

“Do you want to work for them?” Calvin asks, looking over the binding of his textbook—leaning up on his elbow. It’s obvious he’s talking to Kara, who seems to consider whether or not she’s going to answer.

“No,” she finally relents, “but I think they might have something about—what I’m researching.” Delicate wording, it makes you smile.

“What’re you researching?” Your curious son has scenting blood in the water, there’s no going back—even if Kara doesn’t realize it yet.

“The multi-verse.” Diplomatic, vague—you’re really kind of impressed. Calvin’s sitting up—bright joy in his fourteen year old eyes, and you know you and Samantha are about to be subject to _science_.

“Sammy, we’re in for it now.” You say as your daughter groans in agreement and shoves headphones in, not wanting to partake in another of her brother’s _thought experiments_. “Cal’s kind of obsessed with the multi-verse, Kar. You’ve found a kindred spirit in him.”

And they’re off to the races—heads together, scribbling on paper, she never tells Calvin _she’s_ from another universe, that there’s some version of him out there that’s not exactly right, but you think you’re alright with that. There might be better universes out there—but there’re also worse ones, you imagine.

* * *

“We talked.” She’s looking down at the ice cream in her hands—it’s almost time to close up, and you’re both sitting on the counter.

“Who?” You ask while scoping ice cream into your mouth.

One moment, two moments. “Me and Cat.”

You almost choke—Cat, her _wife_ Cat—no, the woman who _looks_ like her wife. You’re head’s beginning to hurt—you can’t keep up with all this. Calvin’s been passing you notes over dinner to bring to Kara— _research_ , he’d said with complete seriousness. You didn’t understand any of it—quantum entanglements, and strings, or whatever.

“That was probably a bad idea, Kara.” A woman who isn’t who she is—not really.

“I—it helped. I couldn’t feel her, not like I’m supposed to—it, it cleared everything up.” She’s rolling the vanilla and chocolate soft-serve together, folding them spoonful over spoonful, until she’s just looking up balefully. You can’t help smiling and bumping shoulders with her. “But she’s still Cat—she still—she always knows just what to say. That hasn’t changed—I don’t think there’s a universe out there in which Cat Grant doesn’t know what to say.”

Hold the fucking— _that_ name you know.

“Cat Grant?” You ask incredulously—because holy fucking shit.

And Kara _laughs_. It’s bone shaking and belly deep and you feel a little out of sorts because you don’t know what’s so funny.

“ _I’m—I’m—I’m_ from another _universe,_ and we won’t even pretend you don’t know that I’m an alien,” she _did_ float that one time, but that was neither here nor there. “And _this_ is what you can’t believe?” She’s laughing so hard she’s crying—and okay, you can see why it’s a little funny. You’re grinning, ice cream melting, and you feel impossibly light.

It feels _normal_ to laugh like this, and Kara must think so too as she rests her head on your shoulder.

“Did I ever tell you how I met my wife?”

* * *

You don’t know how you haven’t noticed it.

The ring around her neck is a mirror to the one on your finger—burnished gold and twisting at the edge, folding in and over into a smooth draw of color. You’d used much of a year’s pay to buy the rings. Your wife had gasped at their size, hardly concerned with something like that herself—but it was a statement to you. Those clear little rocks—the gold of your ring—what exactly that statement was, you’re long to forget.

Maybe that it was all worth it.

You can’t help reaching out to touch the ring, how it glints and rolls down the chain until it can sit comfortably in your left palm. Only an inch or so from your own. “What’s your real name?”

Watery smile, brittle but bright. She’s within hugging distance and not shying away, blinking those ridiculously blue eyes at you with something of a hapless shrug. “I didn’t lie—my name _is_ Kara.” She promises, sniffling and shrugging again—like she can’t help herself. “Kara Ainsley Callaghan.”

It’s the little piece of _something_ that makes everything understandable—a translation of sorts—how she seemed familiar, why so many of her mannerisms spoke to you in ways that you couldn’t put exact definitions to.

Ainsley—your mother’s name.

“We’re not—in my universe, we’re not related—not biologically. But you found me when I was twelve, and—and you raised me. We were family.” She looks at you like you might set the stars in the sky, it’s the same flickering wonder you’ve noticed once or twice before. And like she knows you’ve caught that _were_ , she explains. “You passed at seventy-nine—when I was nineteen. I wouldn’t be the person I am without you.” She’s saying _you_ , but she means someone else—someone who is very much _not_ you, just—just someone with your face.

You—but not. She’s talking about some _not-you_.

“Not me,” you say, though you can’t stop running your finger over that ring— _your_ ring. “Some Boston mick that looks like me.”

“You’re the same where it matters. A lot of bad happened to you in my world, a lot—I don’t—no one should go through what you did. But, somehow, you were still the kindest person I’ve ever met. ” Her foot jostles like Calvin’s—almost nervous, but unwilling to admit it— _you wonder, you wonder, you wonder_. “I learned how to be a hero from you—you didn’t put out fires, or stop meteors, but you saved everyone you could. Community programs, and afterschool jobs, and free day-care—food drives and tutoring sessions. You saved people who didn’t like admitting they needed help—not because you had to, or because you wanted the gratitude. But—but because you just, it’s who you are.”

Her words do what a hundred therapy sessions can’t—she makes you believe. It was easy to believe in the impossible, in the improbable—you always had trouble believing in yourself. The way Kara says them, they’re _facts_. Not opinions, not things to be debated—they just _are_. You’re not _just_ some high-school dropout, or _just_ some middle of the road veteran—you’re something else entirely.

Something good, maybe. Probably.

 _Yes_.

You don’t want to know the bad from her world— _her universe_ —because those don’t belong to you. They’re horrors that belong to a Thompson Callaghan that isn’t quite you—someone years, and tragedies removed.

“You’re home,” she seems embarrassed, but resolved—like this isn’t something she’ll budge on. “You’ve always been how I defined home.”

Letting the ring thunk back against her collarbones, you can only feel the cool metal around your own finger. “I felt it too—that crazy? Not sure how all this works but—I _knew_ you.” It explains how she felt right in your arms, like you could protect her from the whole world—that same thrumming warmth you gets from your children. Form their smiles, and their laughter.

Clearing your throat, you wipe a tear off her cheek, and then rub your wrist against yours—clearing the damned waterworks you had going on. “Well,” crying isn’t a weakness, but you really did want to seem confident. “Now that I know I have another daugh—,”

“Granddaughter—and grandson,” she corrects, which makes you choke a little.

“Granddaughter?!” You can’t, rubbing a hand through your hair—short, a little graying. “I’m only fifty-three! I’m too young for grandchildren! _Multiple_ grandchildren.”

“Parallel universes, they’ll give you a headache.”

* * *

It’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep—there’s thunder ages away over the pacific, but that isn’t it. It isn’t the ache in your bones, or the demons in your head—it’s something else, even if you can’t put your finger on it. Eleanor murmurs and turns away from you—curled up on her side facing the half-open window. You’re forever destined to freeze your ass off married to a woman who runs so hot. Four blankets and a sweatshirt and it’s still a little chilly.

The bedroom smells like thunderclouds and you roll the thought over and over until you come up with a word— _petrichor._ The scent after a storm. A little ozone, a little static—it inhabits you for a second until you can’t just _lay_ anymore. Tossing your blankets back you shuffle free and shove on some slippers—doing your best not to make any noise. Eleanor could sleep through a hurricane, but one misplaced whisper and she’d be up for hours.

Walking down the hall you see Calvin sprawled on his covers, and Samantha surrounded by magazines. You’re thankful they don’t know fitful sleep—don’t know what nightmares are out there, and you are determined to keep it that way. Side-stepping all the stairs that creak, you make it into your kitchen until you realize someone’s sitting at the center island—you scream, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Thankfully not loud enough to wake anyone upstairs.

“Jesus Christ, Kid.” You pant, hand on your heart—her eyes reflect in the dark, catching wayward headlights. “What are you doing here at dumb o’clock in the morning?”

She’s wearing all black—polo, tactical pants, boots—but she’s soft at the eyes. In her smile. “I have a way home. It’s a little round-about, but—but it’s a way home.” Her metal circle is on the table, beeping and whirring, though nothing particularly interesting is happening with it.

“Finally got that to work?” You ask, but your hearts heavy—weighted at both ends because you feel like _you’re_ about to lose something, even if she might not’ve ever really been yours to keep in the first place.

“I—a friend from when I was young knows how to move between universes, he came here looking for this universe’s version of me. And, well, here I am instead—I’m going to help him, and then hitch a ride home.” She spins the metal ring with one finger, then looks up. “I’m going home, I’m going to make it better.” Whatever she’d done—the dark _something_ that lingered when she worried about home.

That something she can’t forgive herself for.

“They’ll forgive you, Kara. I can’t imagine they won’t.” You know in your heart of hearts it’s the truth, you don’t care what version of whoever are out there. “Sometimes you have to mind your own thumbs, kid; loving yourself can be worlds harder than loving someone else. They make it seem easy.” You have to believe she’ll forgive herself.

“Untuck my thumb?” She asks with a smile.

“Damn right.”

Kara walks around the counter and pulls you into a hug, arms locking yours to your sides, but you squeeze her as tightly as you can. “This isn’t goodbye, not forever.” She promises, and you exhale in relief. “I think I’m getting the hang of this universe hopping.”

* * *

It isn’t until three days later when you’re watching footage of Supergirl saving a bus full of literal nuns that it hits you who exactly Kara’s counter-part in your world is.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” you murmur, only to be shushed by your family.


	81. snap shot 81. ( 1, 16, 32, 34, 47 )

**SNAP SHOT (WINN).** _When you expect to be alone, it doesn’t hurt—it’s just more of the same. Like being in a blizzard and not realizing your fingers are frozen through until you step inside—until you feel the heat. That’s what family feels like—the warm after the cold._

* * *

Up until a few days ago you had no plans for Christmas.

You used to celebrate like you always saw on television—a tree, lights, little bobbles that sing—but after a while it was more a reminder of how you were always alone, and not the joy of the season. Every monotone _Jingle Bells_ cemented that there was no last minute company, no long lost relatives. Just you, a diner-bought dinner, and whatever feel-good made for television movie that was on.

You spent more time at work because the bustle of having things to do made it easier—made it possible to forget the countdown going on everywhere else in the world. The CatCo news-floor had no need for Hallmark holidays—it was a hilarious juxtaposition considering the lengths Cat Grant went to, to allow everyone to spend the holidays with their families. Discounted airline tickets, travel packages exclusive to CatCo employees—to Los Angeles, or Dubai, it didn’t seem to matter.

You’d clicked through the bulletin e-mail once or twice— _a day_ —until it felt a little too much like self-flagellation and you stopped paying it any mind.

Until the Tuesday before Christmas

“Any plans?”  She said it so casually it would have been easy to pretend you hadn’t heard her, like you were too focused on the task on hand. Painting Warhammer 40K figures with aching detail—you used to love doing this in high school, it felt like you were breathing life into the game with every dash of color. You’d never had someone content to silently paint with you—until now.

Cat had purchased a set for Carter— _hundreds_ of pieces—and she was determined to paint them herself. The first few were horribly lopsided, but she got better—squinting through two sets of glasses while chewing her lip. She probably could have asked Kara to help—who was both artistic and superhuman—but it wasn’t about them being perfect. It never was.

But she asked you—well, she sat in the conference room behind her office and didn’t scowl when you asked what color palette she picked. Or which sets she’d gotten. You’d fiddled with the paintless figures on the outskirts of her artistic madness for only a few minutes before a brush had been unceremoniously shoved in your direction. She’d never looked up.

That had been nearly a month ago.

“Other than a TV-dinner and It’s a Wonderful Life?” You’d replied, “Not really.”

You’d gotten used to the vacant nods and hapless shrugs as those with families think for a moment about what it must be like to celebrate without them. Cat hummed while leaning in to paint the green trim on the Imperial Knight’s armor. She had an interesting color scheme going on—light blues and neon greens, all of which you know Carter loves.

“You should come over,” half-thought, not really paying attention—it was usually how conversations went with Cat. But this was—it was the kind of gesture you offered to people you cared about. The big gestures were easy—sometimes, it was remembering to be kind when everything else is calm that’s hard. That makes a difference. “Kara’s planning—” wrist holding the paint brush raised to gesture vaguely—a physical eye-roll. “— _activities_.”

* * *

Which is how you found yourself outside Cat Grant’s penthouse on Christmas Eve.

* * *

You don’t know what you expected—but it wasn’t this.

There’s Christmas lights tangled across the living room carpet, blinking and flickering with absolutely no rhythm. The colored lights and white lights clash horribly, but something about it just seems _right_. Maybe it’s all those Christmas movies you grew up on, maybe it’s the small tree you remember from your dorm at college.

“Mom’s five seconds from imploding,” Carter warns as he closes the door softly behind you. You extend the wine you’d brought with you, and the requisite tin of cookies.

“This is the worst attempt at hiding ever,” you say while stepping over a particularly gnarled mess of lights. “You’re still close enough for her to smell your fear.” It’s still weird—you don’t think there’ll ever be a time when this _isn’t_ weird, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. A voice clears behind you and you spin to see Cat Grant, media magnate, with flour on her cheek, and an apron that has the sculpted muscles of Superman imposed across it.

“I thought you knew better, Winifred—fear’s like blood in the water.” She raises an eyebrow, plucking the wine from your hand and humming at the vintage—it was a nice bottle, you knew that much—and pausing a long moment, before pecking you on the cheek, but not before whispering. “I can smell it from a mile out.”

A light tap, tap against your other cheek and she sauntered off into the kitchen.

It _feels_ how Christmas is supposed to—warm, and happy, and cozy—the music drifting from the other room clashes with the television in the kitchen that’s playing just _a little_ too loud, but it doesn’t matter. _This_ feels like a home—it feels lived in and build for a family. Carter’s sitting on the floor again, looping cords of lights over, and under, and through in an attempt to untangle them.

“Uncle Slow!” The screech is more than your human ears can take, but you’re already turning to catch the small blonde haired bullet tossing herself from the hallway and into your arms. Hefting her up, her hot little hands smoosh against either of your cheeks so that you can’t look anywhere other than into her little green eyes.

You wouldn’t believe that she wasn’t even two years old if you didn’t know she was half-alien. She’d been butchering your name for the better part of a few months until Kara had broken it down for her— _Winn, slow_. She much preferred the second half.

“Here’s my favorite Grant!” She’s laughing, and it’s infectious—you never understood that until Alondra Grant—when people said the laughter of children was infectious. “Have you been helping mommy make dinner?” She pouts and bumps her forehead a little too hard against yours.

“I tried’ta make the meats with my eyes,” she bemoans, lurching her whole body backwards fast enough that she might’ve gone toppling if you didn’t have such a firm grip on her. “But mommy says I need’ta keep my eyes to ma’self.” You can’t even imagine trying to raise a little girl that could melt steel with her _eyes_ , let alone bend it with her hands.

Kara’d told you the truth once she was actually _talking_ , you’d already known her for months by that point—and it just seemed to _make sense_. Of course Cat Grant was with _Kara Callaghan_ , the woman who revolutionized the tech industry with Maxwell Lorde—you’d gotten the Thompson Callaghan Merit Scholarship, a full ride that had been the only reason college had been possible. The day she’d been declared dead you’d been devastated—it was cloak and dagger, which is what lead to so many conspiracy theories, but you’d just been sad that someone who made such a huge difference in your life had died so tragically.

Except she hadn’t died—she’d _saved the freaking world_.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a good idea,” you confer, but lower your voice to a whisper. “Maybe we’ll light some firecrackers with your eyes _later_.” Alondra’s eyes go wide and she nods vigorously, little head bobbing until she’d squealing and throwing herself backwards again. It’s a horrible idea, _the worst_ , but you’d do anything to be the reason she smiles like that.

“Stop encouraging my children’s arsonistic behavior.” Cat says while walking by, catching Alondra easily enough by the pits and hoisting her up onto a hip. The little girl wallows, going limp and flopping, but Cat doesn’t even struggle to keep her locked into place.

Carter pipes up from the living room, “I haven’t set anything on fire in _years_.”

And then from down the hall, “Are you still salty about that jacket? I told you, I was doing you a favor. Burgundy is _not_ your color.” Clark Callaghan ambles out with those big _awh shucks_ eyes and winning smile. Dark hair a little long and curling, which just makes Cat brush at it while he tries to get away—a firm look has him standing still.

“Are we really going to compare clothing tastes?” Cat asks while blatantly looking down at her apron—the bright primary colors of Superman’s costume in full presentation. You’re settling to watch the good-humored argument about to happen, when someone tugs you away and into the kitchen. Kara grins at you from where she’s sitting on the counter—probably where she’d been before she retrieved you.

“They’ve been spoiling for a fight since Clark got here. I’d say it’s genetic, but,” she shrugs and offers you a glass of wine. Not the one you brought, but one that’s nearly finished.

“Some things defy science,” Kara’s aunt—Astra—says from where she’s leaning against the door frame leading to the dining room. A matching ugly sweater, and a pair of antlers that blink with lights on the top of her head. She still intimidates you, even with those ridiculous antlers, but you’ve grown to appreciate her dry humor.

Kara laughs and looks back at you with a smile that goes all the way up to her blue, blue eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, Winn.”

She’s ages better that that blonde wraith that would drift in and out of Cat Grant’s office what felt like forevers ago. She’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater that’s whole sizes too big, but it looks warm and comfortable. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” you say, and it’s the truth. _God_ , it’s the truth.

“That’s a huggable offense,” she warns, hopping down, “prepare to be hugged.” And then you’re wrapped up in her arms and you hug her back instinctively. Her heat bleeds through both layers of clothes, and she gives such good hugs. Your eyes get a little misty because you’re really getting what it means to _choose_ your family—how little blood matters in the decision of who you choose to love.

* * *

“…for a long winter’s nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash…” It’s almost midnight and the only lighting is the twinkling lights curled carefully up the eight foot tree in the corner of the room. Light wrapped garland chase the molding to every corner and wash the living room in a soft glow.

Ally sits perched on Kara’s lap, half a second from sleep but trying so hard to stay awake to hear the story being told—hazy green eyes blinking owlishly every few moments until she leans into Kara’s shoulder and tucks her head under her mother’s chin. It’s heartwarming, and you thank everything that Kara came home—not only so that you could know her, but also because you never want to imagine what this family looks like without her. That cold gaping holes in family trees that tear, and ruin, and bleed from the inside out.

You only want to imagine Clark snoring on the floor, laying belly down with Carter using his side as a pillow. Astra listening carefully to the story and you imagine it might be her first time hearing it—something you take for granted. Knowing the joy of Christmas. A family tuckered out from a long day, filling and finding traditions. Cat had rolled her eyes when caught under the mistletoe with Kara’s aunt; you’d joined in with the chant of _kiss_ until Cat laid a wet kiss on Astra’s slack lips. Ally hadn’t really grasped the concept, she just went around slobbering kisses onto everyone’s cheeks—which were accepted with absolute joy.

* * *

Tomorrow planes will be arriving and the penthouse will be packed—Lois Lane, Kassidy O’Doherty, Alexandra Danvers—and you can’t wait. Not for presents, but for the company—the knowledge that you won’t be spending Christmas alone.

“Never again,” Cat had said earlier.

Never again—you like the sound of that.


	82. snap shot 82. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [Flash/2]

**SNAP SHOT (KARA GRANT).** _You carry an apology in your chest, a silent unspoken I’m sorry that has somehow stitched itself into your spine, into your heart; into the strongest parts of you, because whenever you wonder where you came from, why you’re here, you think of that apology. Of what you had promised a dying world._

* * *

You’ve seen how worlds burn.

Slowly—and then all at once.

* * *

Home always burns the brightest—the hottest—the fastest.

You wake up with crumbling worlds behind your eyelids. The red dust of Krypton caught in your eyelashes, the dry air clambering like tumbling stones in your lunges. You have no worlds in this language, or any other, to describe how exactly a planet sounds when it dies.

* * *

Sometimes worlds are places—home is red suns and golden skies.

Sometimes _your_ whole world— _your home_ —is two eyes and a heartbeat.

* * *

Barry’s looking at you with wide bright eyes, but you can _taste_ Krypton on your tongue—feel it in your chest where your daughter’s heartbeat is meant to be. Some of the Red must linger because you can feel it in the roots of your teeth— _rage_ —and it doesn’t sit right with warmly frantic blue eyes and the heavy weight of your _not-_ cousin just behind you.

Barry feels impossibly small in your arms—more a man than he’d been when you were only fifteen, but still somehow maybe closer to a boy. He’s not any older—unlined, yet tired—but you’ve lived whole lifetimes between his visits. Entire forevers.

“We need you,” he says, his friend steps closer, looking at you like you might do something phenomenal.

“You get me home,” you say, slowly, because your own heart is kicking against your tongue—you’re smiling, you can feel it on your cheeks, but somewhere under that is something else. Like you’re being reminded of something from forever ago— _I’ll have you, I’ll have you_ —but you can’t exactly put your finger on it. “I’ll do anything you need.”

 _Anything_.

Maybe he hears something you aren’t saying— _maybe, maybe, maybe_ —but he nods, firmly enough that maybe he isn’t a boy. Maybe he’s lived lifetimes too. Maybe he’s seen forevers.

“No problem, we can find your Earth as soon as—as soon as we get ours back.” _Back_ , he says it like you do in your mind—you wished you could get Krypton _back_. Like it’s lost, and not blown to pieces— _back_ , like the thought of it hadn’t torn your mind in halves trying to make everything _better_.

 _Back_ —you’re beginning to think there’s no going back.

* * *

“That’s,” the whirl of energy is controlled, spiraling instead of tumbling. “That was cool.”

In your bag is a useless circle of metal and a towel given to you by a man who was—and wasn’t—your grandfather. Mister Callaghan always knew how to heal your heart—to mend the cracks before they went too far and broke you forever. You have pieces of him still, things that survived the Phantom Zone, that allowed you to remember yellow suns and laughter filled afternoons, even in the cold, timeless dark of that place.

“Barry, I thought you were bringing an alien.” A man says with a twist to his lips—wide stance, crossed arms. You’re not sure you like him.

“I did,” your friend's loose limbed and ambling, but there’s a nervousness there—a little wobble in his steps. “This is Kara Callaghan—or as they call her on her Earth—I, wait, I don’t even know what they call you on your Earth.”

The gruff man with opinions isn’t too happy with that answer, “you don’t even know?”

“Little miscalculation, nothing—,” Barry starts, but three different people look like they’re about to step in.

“I wasn’t on the right Earth—he was looking for Kara Danvers, and got me instead.” You might not have Cat at the edges of your mind anymore, but she’d been there for so long—decades longer than she’s _actually_ been there—that it isn’t hard to pluck a brow up and smile wide. The _Grant-ness_ of it all would’ve made her proud. “I promise, you’ve traded up.”

You aren’t wearing your suit—you aren’t the Spectre—but at least you changed before leaving with Barry. It would have been a little harder to get his attention in flip flops and a Grand Canyon shirt—though those are all stashed away in your bag. Promises you intend to keep. Keepsakes from a world that was only moments away from being yours—seconds away, really.

“A little girl, fancy,” someone says from the back—a wise crack that makes you smile, actually smile, because you can already feel the pulse of _something_ in the room. A team—broken at the edges as it seems.

With barely a thought, you’re beside the hulking bald man behind the smirking blonde—half a blink to their human eyes. “A little girl from across the galaxy,” you promise, still holding tight to all the _Grant-ness_ you’ve had stashed away. “Who could melt your skin form your bones.”

The bright glow behind your eyes has his eyes widening, the dark skinned youth to his side cursing faintly and stumbling back. Maybe it’s the flickers of Red in your veins still—but you can feel the heat pulse through you, a burn that spills and crawls, but you ignore it. It’s easy now, unlike before.

“Kitty got teeth,” the man grins, hand resting on some gun at his side. “Me like-y.”

* * *

It’s the Dominators—little manila folders are slapped down on the desk and you flip to the first page, an old man in a tweed suit graveling through histories and explanations. Up on the monitor the recording of the crashed ship sits—a handful of dominators had spilled out around Barry and into the city. Crawling into the darkest bowels of the steel skyline.

There’s something about this that just doesn’t sit right.

It’s the demands—the lopsidedness of it all.

This doesn’t seem like the world conquering force you’d heard stories about growing up—this was a little mess of monsters spilling like trickling water into a forest.

“This isn’t right,” you say to Barry, snagging him by the arm to keep him close. “This doesn’t _feel_ right.”

“We’re being invaded by aliens, of course it doesn’t feel right.” He’s never mean about it, never snide, but you want to shake him—want to make him feel the burn in your chest that feels like it’s reaching for something. This isn’t your Earth—it’s a funhouse mirror of home—one that never got that meteor shower, that never had orphaned aliens tumbling through the clouds.

Maybe this is a world where Krypton lived—maybe Barry’s world was the world you search for.

 _I’ll have you_ , the thought comes unbidden; like sweat down the back of your neck.

“We’re missing something,” the insistence is in your bones, in your blood, and something must translate because he’s nodding and stepping toward the group. You hear the murmur of their voices, but there’s so much _static_ in your mind.

* * *

How had you missed them? How could you put the pressure behind your eyes to anything _but_ power rings? The Dominators had been a threat—their mothership sitting up in orbit, but it’d been hollowed out by a particularly brash sect of the Lantern Corp—their bright red flashes slash through the skyline as they descend. A handful of them—more than even you’d be comfortable dealing with—the black of their power suits spilling up and over their faces, leaving bright red pin pricks where eyes ought to be.

“Give us Barry Allen,” a distorted female voice says—the leader—she’s slender, and harsh in a way that sits in her stance. A little wide, slanting toward her front foot like she’s always half a second from charging. “Consider this a warning for the rest of you,” she continues, the black melting and spreading to show bright white teeth and pearl colored lips. “Fuck with the timeline, and we’ll obliterate you.”

None of the Red Lanterns can see you—not the red-lined cat zipping through the skyline, not the harpy of a woman hovering just above the ground. You’re far away, beyond human sight—ready to surge forward if you’re needed, but you know this is just the first step.

This is the proverbial game of cat and mouse—you’re not used to being the mouse.

“But, we’re forgiving—I mean, we’re not _monsters_ after all.” The grin says something else entirely—nothing happy, nothing above the rot. “Just give us the speedster.”

This was why you’d never told Max what happened that night in the laboratory— _this_ was why you let him think the horrible things he did. Because if he had _known_ that the party responsible was out there somewhere—that somehow, someway, they could have been in his reach—he would have never stopped seeking revenge. He would have painted a target on Earth’s side just to attract their attention again—a second once in a millennia moment—and brought ruin to his world to satiate his thirst for retribution.

Let him hate you; to keep him—and the entire world—safe.

Small price compared to some of your gambles.

* * *

Barry’s willing to go—you know he’s heavy and sluggish with the guilt.

No one lets him.

* * *

Fighting Red Lanterns burns even your Kryptonian skin—the blood slicking their suits wet and dripping in some places. You try following the tell in their eyes, but you can’t see anything through the pin-prick of harsh color. You’ve been knocked clear off your feet, slammed into walls—winded and panting. They’re powerful, their raw rage making pure power that even you can’t handle for long. The superheroes gathered don’t stand much of a chance against a handful of ring powered Reds.

You’d been foolhardy—you’d gone out alone. You didn’t want Barry to die, didn’t want his friends to perish—this isn’t their world, not as they recognize it. You would have had confidence in them had it _been_ the Dominators, but this is leagues above them. _Beyond_ them. You’ll fix this, you’ll think of _something_. Anything. But all you’ve gotten so far is bruised ribs, and cracks bones—pieces of you creaking with pain as you stagger and sway.

“You’re hardier than the others,” the leader says, grin in her voice, low and harsh, she’s wedging a foot into your side and launches you clear across the parking structure that you’d found yourself in. Trying to find _anything_ that could help—anything that would turn the tides.

Throwing yourself back up onto your feet, you direct her past you as she charges—guiding with one hand and pushing her into a cement pillar. The mask covering your face beeps and scans—this particular Red is burning bright in the infrared, which you know means she’s been in the thrall of the ring for a long time. It’s dug down into her—you’d tried talking to the others, tried directing them off their paths of destruction, but they’d all laughed and grinned.

The Red’s next punch makes your knuckles pop when you catch it—all the force of her anger pushing down on you, but you’re burning up with the mid-day sun. Running hot and spitting energy—it focalizes behind your eyes and you blast her back and off the edge of the parking level. She catches herself mid-air, the crimson aura flowing around her.

“Let’s do this face to face,” she says, looking far too pleased—like a beast that had finally slipped its leash. The slick black tar slides down her cheeks and neck, spilling into the darkness of her suit, leaving smooth unblemished skin behind. Dark skin, curling dark hair—and eyes the color of new pennies. You _know_ those cheekbones, that lethargic smile that just _promised_ mischief. The anger pouring off her isn’t unfamiliar because this was how you remembered her—despite _years_ of anything otherwise. You only remember how angry she’d been at the end, when her whole world crumbled apart.

“Marion,” you gasp, hitting the button that would let your helmet clatter to the ground. You should take it as some kind of victory as she gapes, the red filtering away for a moment until the red pours back into the copper of her eyes. She didn't know it was you; you see it in the curl of her fists and the clench of her jaw. You’re both unmasked—your hair sticking to the sweat dripping down your face, pooling in the hollows of your collarbones. You’re miles away from alright, you’re leagues beyond fine—you can’t breath, and you can hardly think because—because—

This is all _wrong_.

“Kara,” she coos, “long time no try to kill.” She floats so that she might land on the railing, balancing her weight perfectly on the thin rail.

“You _died_.” You don’t know what to believe—you felt her die that night, you watched from afar as Max sobbed over her casket. This was one of those fundamental truths you carried with you—the horrible little _somethings_ that you couldn’t help remembering when everything started to brighten. When you were happy, and good, and ready to move forward—her death was something that lived in your bones like marrow, despite everything else.

“What can I say? It didn’t stick—a lot of strange happens out there in the universe, Kara. Dead really doesn’t mean what it used to.” _Something_ darkens in Marion and you wonder if she’s thinking about Caroline—how sometimes dead was dead, and the universe had no say in the matter.

“You should have come to us,” you gasp, your lungs pressing like you’re not getting enough oxygen—you’re reaching for Cat in your mind, the corners where she always lingers, but she’s not there. There’s just gapes and crawling cold in her absence. You feel upended in ways that makes your hands shake, makes your mind shutter—like blinking through strobe lights. “We would have helped you.”

“I didn’t need help,” she says, stepping off the rail to walk closer. You back up—not out of fear, but out of _something_. This changes everything, absolutely everything. “I was fine _because_ of what I was.” You’d been ready to save this Earth at any cost so that you might get home even a moment earlier—obliterate the Dominators, carve through the Red Lanterns. But this is _Marion_ —someone you’d missed every day since that night in the laboratory, when she’d sputtered and gasped her last breath, a little piece of you had died with her.

“This isn’t _fine_ , Marion! This is the furthest thing from fine!” You can only imagine having that whispering voice in your ear for _decades_ , making everything sharper, and hotter, and worse. Making the universe an enemy to be battled, a war to be won. She’s looking at you like she recognizes you, but not like she remembers you. Aware, but distant. Her lips still drawn into a foreboding grin that did nothing to soften the angles of her face—a little gaunt, a lot cruel.

“How do you plan on making it fine this time?” Marion asks, hands lifting to twirl around absently, a gesture that you recognize too firmly—something that you saw mimicked to this day in Cat. That looseness, that casual roll of her shoulders. “Gonna kill me again? Make sure it sticks?” You remember how hard she’d been then, burning alive and melting inside—afraid of feeling the sadness under the anger, the misery of what exactly she’d lost. What she’d _done_.

Your hands are wet with blood— _your_ blood—and everything spots and flickers, your eyes going out of focus. The ring tears at you digging into the edges of your nerves, makes you mortal in ways you’ve long since given up on. You’re not _powerless_ , not in ways you recognize, but you’re weak, and tired, and everything is getting hazy.

You can remember how heavy she’d been in your arms, how still she’d been when the ring clattered to the ground—how _dead_. None of this makes sense, but you suppose that doesn’t matter, that none of what’s happened matters, because you’ve been given a second chance. You’ve been given a moment to heal, instead of simply slapping a band aid over a mortal wound.

“I’m not going to kill you, Mar.” You feel ancient, right down to your bones. “Twenty years hasn’t changed anything. I love you.” You do—in ways that multi-verses and alternate realities can’t touch. The same way you’ll love every version of Cat, or Clark, or Carter—how Mister Callaghan will always be home, no matter who he is, when he is. But this—this is _your_ Marion—the woman who held the cracks in Cat together when they’d both been so young. Who understood you, even if she never knew the truth.

The first person of many you personally failed.

You’re destined to live in cycles—little circles that go around and around, funhouse mirrors and carousels. Marion’s only an arm’s length away and the realization sits in the copper of her eyes—pupils bright and red as she cocks her head to the side. Something familiar lurks in her eyes, something bright and alive—you’re not who you were last time, you’ve lived in darkness, and consumed your own heart whole for a world that could be better because of it.

“I feel like we’ve been here before,” she comments, finger rotating in faux amusement. “And I still stand by the same sentiment—you’re a fool if you think love matters.”

But she doesn’t understand, not yet. She’s been without love for so long, she’s been living in the darkness with only the infuriated red in her chest to keep her alive—keep her present. You’re the first reminder she’s had in _decades_. And that’s alright. She’ll understand soon. Love is what makes so much possible—love makes the improbable just another step into something larger, something greater. Considering things you’d never have thought of otherwise.

Love makes you brash—but it also makes you strong.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” you breathe while lifting off from the ground, shaking gravity off your shoulders and moving away. “If you burn, I burn with you.”

Marion’s just watching you—feet set on the ground, the tar dripping from her suit melting through cement. “How’d that work for you last time? How’d that work for me?”

“It’s different this time.”

“Oh?” One step toward you, but she stops, almost like it’d been involuntary, the temperature rises and more sweat drips from the tip of your nose. She’s blinking rapidly, “Are you going to _save me_? Maybe I don’t want to be save.”

Drifting backwards through the air, you feel a cool breeze for the first time in what feels like lifetimes. “I already told you,” you’ve made up your mind. You made it up years, and years, and years ago. “You burn, I burn.”

* * *

“This is ridiculous,” Gruff-beard McOpinions says with _firmness_ , and everyone’s heaving a breath like they’re used to him leading. “We have a plan, we’re sticking to it.” Used to him being _firm_. The _and that’s that_ of it all too thick for you to not scoff at—you’ve had Cat Grant in your mind for over two years now, you’ve tried your hardest to keep her dry commentary inside, where it belonged, but so much about him made you bristle.

It’s not the _worst_ plan, though hardly an award winner—well coordinated, hinging on careful maybes—and dependent on _you_. They’re human, a breakable, and you’ve been slotted into their machinations with due-consideration. You’re their A-Bomb, their last ditch effort, the basket they’re putting all their hope in—and why shouldn’t you be? You’re Kryptonian on a Earth with no Kryptonite, you’re bursting with power you can hardly contain— _rage, rage_ —but you’re not strong enough.

Not yet.

“You,” you emphasize, “can stick to whatever plan you’d like. _I’m_ going to do what’s best.” One step, two steps—he’s taller than you, wider and more imposing, but everyone in the room knows how little that means. You’ve survived the evisceration of your race, ten years on a prison ship in the black between stars—you’re not going to let some self-important man stop you.

“Best for who?” He quips, dropping his hands to his sides, eyebrows raised. “You? No one man is an army, we have to work together if we’re going to make it through this.”

You’re tired of being told what to do—how to go about things—you’re _tired_ of holding back because it’s inhuman, or dangerous. You won’t let anyone else you love die for the _greater good_.

You think you’ve earned the right to be selfish. Just this once.

“I’m the last daughter of Krypton, Oliver,” you say—no, _drawl_ , a little too much Cat in you right now. “I don't need an army."

“You’re making a mistake,” it’s someone in the back, a blonde with thick framed glasses—she doesn’t look angry, not like Oliver Queen, no, she looks scared. Like she’s witnessing the last moments of her world, and there’s nothing she can do about it. Your heart _clenches_ because you truly do know what that feels like—watching everything you know crumble and crack, but this world has eons ahead.

It isn’t ending on your watch.

“No, I’m not—but I am fixing one,” you say, softer than you have been, and then promise, “don’t worry. I’m pretty good at saving the world. Don't think it matters if it's mine or not.”

* * *

They’re disjointed—you realize this as they fork and fissure away from each other—they’re leaderless, in a sense, even if Marion is keeping them together by force of will alone. You wonder what’s happening in the Lantern Corps, you wonder if it’s even _this_ world’s Lanterns.

“Are you sure this is the best move?” It’s Barry, quick and quiet as he stops beside you—his eyes bright, and trusting. You wonder if you still seem the same after all these years, after lifetimes lived. Does he still see that fifteen year old in your eyes?

“It’s my only move, Barry.” You confide, this high up, this far away from furrowed brows and scared eyes—away from heroes assembled in a last ditch effort to save everything. “I can’t lose her, not again.”

He looks at you like he understands, like he’s made this choice over, and over, and over—it’s the whispered truths you’ve heard over the last two days. Timelines altered and mistakes made—whole lives changed without their knowledge. He carries that. A weight that is without pounds but lives in the soul, in places that can’t be measured.

“I’m here,” he promises, “I’m here if you need me.”

“I need you to promise me something,” you turn to him, hand on his shoulder, bringing him in close. “If it’s too much, if I can’t control myself—go to my Earth, and get Cat. She’ll be able to stop me.”

“Kara,” he protests, “she’s just—.”

He doesn’t understand, but that’s alright.

“She’s my heart, Barry. She always has been. Whatever I lose today is nothing compared to her. She’ll stop me.” Maybe he doesn’t understand, maybe he never will, but he nods.

“Okay,” soft, sincere, “Okay, Kara. I can do that.”

* * *

Killing shouldn’t be this easy.

It shouldn’t be—but it is.

They hadn’t been expecting you—they’d been expecting Barry Allen—and that had been the worst mistake they’d ever made. The largest of them—a brute of a man—goes down in surprise, his red power flickering out and away too quickly to help him.

There’s a ring calling to you, ringing in your ears and burning the underside of your tongue—but you don’t want to be _given_ a ring. You don’t want to be chosen by the Red power flickering all around you. You’re going to steal it. You can’t lose yourself to the bloodlust, you can’t go into it with eyes closed—you have to maintain awareness, maintain _yourself_.

Your knuckles don’t even burn as you bring your fist down once more—you don’t feel anything as you crack his skull open at the brow. His eyes might’ve been brown once—before they were flooded with bright red blood—no, maybe they were gray. _Crack_. His jaw works a little, sways and clenches, but there’s no real hope—no real attempt to survive. _Gurgle_. He’s meat, and bone, and muscle—and it makes you sick how easily you can carve through your disgust, wipe away your horror to do this.

You’re doing this for your family—born _and_ chosen—you’ll be a beast to protect them.

“This is surprising,” Marion says her skin the shade of spring twilight—a smooth beautiful darkness to her. _Rage_. Her bright copper eyes glittering, full lips pulling into a smile, though it was more a baring of teeth.

The man beneath you isn’t moving—he’s slumping and dead, or as dead as a man fueled by rage can be. His fingers are inches larger than your own, but that doesn’t matter—it’ll never matter—because as you pull the red ring from his middle digit. It pulses and tightens. _Rage._ The Red washes through you, familiar and welcoming, like you’re being embraced by the hottest Kryptonian summer—those burning afternoons when Rao was so close, so hot. Just at the horizon.

You burn with it. _Rage_.

 _I’ll have you_ , it whispers—and you can remember it now. Years, and lifetimes, and forevers ago—in a basement when you’d held your friend as she bled, and died, and burned—and burned—and burned. Who had lost everything and been consumed with rage because of it. Now, the ring slides too easily onto your finger. Effortlessly spilling its power into you, slashing through all that resolve to be anything other than what it desired you to be—there’s no gold here, no brightness in the dark. No Cat to keep you leashed and decent.

Your heart clenches first, pulsing hard and lopsided— _aching_ as you lurch forward and dry heave.

_Rage. Rage. Rage._

Dry heaving until you’re blood spills free—your heart stutters and cracks, all those silly gaping wounds that’ll never heal. Every bloodless bruise, every phantom ache—you expel it. All of it—all the soft, all the hurt. The tar pulls up your body, spilling over your clothes, devouring every centimeter of exposed skin. The ring burns brightly on your finger, pulsing with power—purring in time with the anger that has replaced your heart. Filling your empty chest.

_I’ll have you._

“I told you.” You say, voice horse—stretching out your fingers, pressing them wide until you curl them into a fist. One, by one, by one. “Differently.”

* * *

“You burn, I burn.”

A promise that’s taken twenty years for you to make good on.

* * *

And burn you do.

The sun pours into you like it never has before—fistfuls punching straight to your very center, filling you with power, spilling it from your pores. Fourteen Lanterns hover around you as you stagger to your feel—red mist and blood pouring over your teeth, curling from your nostrils. You know the red Rings feed on anger—on that boiling tar that lingers in the soul—the kind that spoils and rots and ruins. And you’ve always had that inside you—lingering at the black edges of your mind because there was nothing to _remove_ the obliteration of your world.

Nothing that could carve the bright flash before Krypton had splintered into half a billion pieces.

Dragging your foot forward, you stagger and fall to your knees—heaving another gallon of blood onto the ground. You’ve _covered_ , the red blisters and boils and your skin steams. If you’d been anything other than Kryptonian you might’ve been cooked alive, but you can only breathe through the power curling through you. Dragging warm fingers through molten rock, all of it was so close—too close—to the surface after the red poisoned you. All that bad so close to the surface, lingering just below your skin.

“She can’t even stand up without getting sick,” one of the Lanterns laughs, wedging a foot into your side and rolling you onto your back.

“We should put her out of her misery now,” another ring bearer comments.

Blinking rapidly to clear the black dots you see them—like distant reflections, their individual features melting and meshing until they’re only specks of black and red and you _burn_. Pushing a hand covered in molten tar through the rubble of what had been a parking structure, you shove and push and stagger to your feet. You leave melting black footprints, marks where elbows and knees and toes dragged through the dust—black and red lines left as a reminder.

“Try it,” you grind out—rasping and rough—because you can barely breathe the hot and fetid air.

Marion’s staring at you like she still doesn’t remember, like she can’t exactly put the pieces together, and you understand—because everything’s beginning to scramble. Things that had been so horribly important suddenly fall away and forgotten—why had you wanted the ring in the first place? You’ve started to align with the ring, feel its pull at the edges of your mind, in the unmoving place in your chest where a heart had once been.

Maybe they like moxy, maybe they never intended on stomping the light out of your eyes—but they let you live.

* * *

Everything’s brighter. Harsher. Glinting off your edges like you’re made of crystal bone. The anger pours through you like a river at the bottom of a canyon—closed in on all sides except one, so onward it flows. Through and through. You’re a god to humans, you always have been in a way—but this is different. You’re mind clicks into place with your body and there’s very little you can’t do. Very little you can’t accomplish.

This isn’t like the red that plagued you before—no, this is different.

You haven’t been pushed down to the black at the bottom of your mind, puppeteered by some false version of you. Manufactured in a lab, created to ruin and destroy. No, no—you’re _you_ , but all that oily black anger down below everything can no longer hide, can no longer pretend that it isn’t who you are, or how you feel. You _thrive_ in it, flourishing in your power with delight—Oliver Queen tries his plan, explosives and decoys and all manner of perfectly times collusion, but you’re far from stupid—and the other Red Lanterns have seen worse.

“Idiot,” Marion scoffs, red power dancing from her fingertips.

Barry’s nowhere to be seen, but you can _taste_ the speed force on the tip of your tongue, it’s the faint vibration through the air that fizzles and zips. All the Lanterns but Marion accept you with bitter delight—the red power and black tar enough for them to enfold you in their group. Marion watches you with the sharp look of someone who _knows_ , who is _waiting_ for the other shoe to fall.

Dex-Starr, the flying Red Lantern cat, told the tale of a meteoric Lantern who wanted to make their way in a universe _without_ the Green or Blue Lanterns—away form Hal Jordan and Guy Gardner, away from Atrocitous. So they’d hitched a ride out of _your_ universe, and to this one. Dedicated to the idea of _justice_ —you’d been given their idea of it, and it really was a skewed point of view—and order. Barry Allen had disrupted that, had thrown their carefully considered order out of whack. With the timeline re-shuffled, their leader ceased to be a Lantern and Marion had taken over.

“We’ll save them, even if we have to destroy them in the process,” the harpy of a woman had grinned the words and you’d felt something boil and bubble in your chest. Something that agreed with the sentiment—something that sneered and spit on the idea of _justice_. Nothing in your life was just, nothing.

* * *

 _Kill_ , the ring demands, but you’re not a baseless monster—you don’t need their Red Ocean or their bloody desires. You have Oliver Queen by the collar of his suit— dangling mid-air, arrow snapped in halves, blood marring the pale of his face, lost into the bristle of his beard.

“You’re just like them,” he hisses, coughing a little blood onto your cheek that hisses and boils away.

“Your opinion,” you coo, voice more a soft rasp than anything— _kill_ —the ring urges, poking at the tar of your anger, the dark rage pooling around destroyed worlds and sunless years. “I’m what’s going to save your world. And I boiled my own heart to do it.” You grin, wide and a little manic, you _feel_ unhinged—like little pieces of you remain tether by your force of will alone. You remain _Kara_ , simply because you desire to be.

“There was another way,” he grits, and you want to crack his skull open— _kill_ —want to damage him in ways he didn’t know possible. But you’re Kara Callaghan, you’re the person you were yesterday, and the day before. A woman with three children and a wife, who loves, and loves, _and loves_ —someone who does _not_ kill indiscriminately.

As if he can read your thoughts, he asks. “Are you going to kill them all? Is that who you are?” Is it? It takes you a moment to remember that _no_ , that isn’t who you are—but you’re not disgusted by the idea. It has merit, but you’re uninterested in the positives of it. No, you’re going to do something else.

“Nope,” you pop the word, “I’m taking them all home with me. I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows what to do with scrappy Lanterns. They fled my universe, I’m taking them back.” To the Green Lanterns, to the Blue ones—you’d beg if it meant saving Marion, if it meant having her back. Beating heart and all. “They’re not supposed to be here.”

They’re supposed to be in a universe with _balance_ , with the other Lantern corps to keep them in line, to keep the universe safe. This one isn’t prepared for unchecked anger, for blistering rage.

You’re too focused on Oliver, too focused on keeping those unchecked urges down and untouched that you don’t realize they’ve started to circle—thirteen Lanterns with bright eyes and savage smiles.

“Oh, we don’t plan on going back,” the harpy soothes, her ring brightening.

Dex-Starr purrs, his voice a vibration in your mind, “we really quite like it here.”

Loosening Oliver form your hold, letting his feet thud back to the ground, you lift off from the ground—turning to see how they’re shoulder to shoulder to shoulder. You’d have liked to get them when they weren’t paying attention, when you could ignore the hungry desire to snap necks and crack skulls.

“Too bad,” you exhale, “you don’t belong here.”

Wrong thing to say—you know it as soon as you say it. Two dive and you fling yourself upward and out of the way, watching as their red auras clash and push outward. Too many of them spark and fizzle, burning like fickle brash things that are moments from extinguishing. You don’t _want_ to rip the ring off each and every one of them, but something feral and cruel bleeding into your chest says you really wouldn’t mind _that much_.

Catching the harpy by her throat you squeeze until her clawing hands go limp—your skin splitting and spilling blood along your knuckles. The red hisses and stitches it back together. She plummets and rolls to a stop on the ground below. The part of you that still reminds you that you’re _Kara_ , and that you don’t enjoy this, wants to make sure she’s breathing, wants to make sure she’s alright. But that part of you has to take a backseat, has to simper and hide, when the red flares bright and fueled by that high yellow sun.

“See, you don’t have many yellow-sun Kryptonians here,” you begin, the words leaving your mouth, but you can’t _feel_ them, can hardly hear them. “So I’ll give you a pass on not knowing.” Power, and power, and power—you’re burning alive with it. It’s pure energy roaring through your veins, filling the still cavity of your heart. “But you really shouldn’t do this. It’s a bad idea.”

A bad idea. They learn that as your red chews and barks up their limbs, twisting around and through them—building, and spoiling, and baring vicious crimson teeth. Oh, you don’t get out unscathed—you’re skin bubbles and your eyes burn, pieces of you break and shatter, but the red keeps you together, keeps that yellow-sun from forgetting you.

One by one they fall—Barry chips away at their edges, Firestorm blasting through their center—but they’re yours. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they sway and stagger—you’re not mindless, you’re not bloodthirsty. You’re angry, and sad, and _want_ so much.

Marion watches—her cheeks slick with blood that isn’t hers, and her eyes calm in a way that reminds you of when she’d been young and hopeful. “I was going to write a book about you,” she says, brows tucking as she tips her head to the side. “You and Cat.” She says it like she’s remembering something, like she’s trying to _not_ forget.

“I was your struggling townie,” you push the power down, choking on it a little, letting the red ooze from your nostril, through your teeth. “I never told.” Like a weight off your chest, one you didn’t realize you still carried—you’d gotten so used to it.

“What?”

“I promised no one would know,” you remember how scared she’d looked, bloody and rasping and _dying_ , and you’d have promised her anything. _Anything_. “I kept that promise. I would have taken it to my grave.” You would have died with Max’s hatred, you would claimed that destruction if it had meant you’d stay true to your promise to Marion.

“Is that supposed to mean something? Is that supposed to make me _miss_ you?” She’s yelling, her ring brightening, her teeth bared.

“You don’t have to miss me,” it burns, the soft _burns_ , but you’d break yourself a thousand times—and then a thousand more—to bring her home whole. The red ring rumbles against your bones, more blood spilling from your nose—over your lips and off your chin. Every soft thought hurts, but you can’t stop, can’t pull back. “I’m right here.”

“How do you fix this? How you do you this _better_ , Kara?” Nostrils flared, words sharp, she’s floating closer, drifting into the warm spread of your power, the red of your aura. You smile, because this you have an explanation for, _this_ you can promise. That once-in-a-lifetime moment was much closer to home with the ring set upon your finger—none of the Lantern Corps wanted a Kryptonian Red Lantern, you _know_ this.

You’ll have their attention.

“The Blue Lanterns,” you breathe, grinning red teeth, “we can get your ring off, and we can restore your heart.” You don’t care if you have to pry Guy Gardner’s green ring off yourself—you’re saving Marion. She’s so close now you can almost touch her, could drag her into a hug, and you almost do—but she grins and cocks her head to the side. Penny bright eyes sharpening and going hot and dark.

“That’s the plan?” Red engulfs you and it _tears_ into the skin beneath the black tar suit, carving into you and you _scream_. Everything going hazy, and shaky, and then black. You can hardly remember cement against your cheek, how it had felt cold—felt unnatural. A voice soft as an eastern wind, buffering the edge of your ear. “I’ll pass.”

* * *

You _feel_ them before anything—gold pours through your very _soul_ the moment you step back into your universe, the moment you lug thirteen unconscious Lanterns through. _Kara?_ Tugs at you, trying to dig fingers into a heart that doesn’t beat any longer, that doesn’t mean much of anything—you feel the recoil, the shock and fear. You can only stand there, shaking as Cat’s mind rubs against yours, trying to swaddle and comfort, even if she doesn’t understand. Even if she’s afraid, and confused—there’s a happiness there that makes you want to _cry_.

You want to _go_ to her, want to forget everything but finding your way to her comforting warmth, but Alondra’s stirring mind makes you pause. Makes you throw up mental barriers that keep your daughter out—keep her away from the burning red that possesses you. That consumes you. You don’t want her to have even the slightest taste of bitter burn on her tongue.

 _Soon_ , you push through to Cat, grinding your teeth, keeping the ring away from her. _Soon, I promise_.

Barry’s team had been able to keep the Lanterns unconscious with some sedative meant for him—something about metabolic rates, but you hadn’t really been listening. Marion was still out there, still plotting and scheming—but worse, she was _alone_. You thought you’d been able to get through to her, been able to open her eyes enough to bring her home—but it hadn’t been enough, hadn’t even been close. But you had a plan, you had one last ditch effort.

“Don’t recall having a whole squadron of Red Lanterns on Earth,” a voice says from above—green cracking through the night and making you squint. Grinning up at Hal, you catch the moment he recognizes you. “Shit, Kara? How did this even happen.” He’s wearing, but determined—you see the familiar tilt of his shoulders that has him leaning forward, ready to take this new challenge head on.

“It’s a long story, but—for the moment—mind taking this bunch into custody?” They’d be safe with the Green Lanterns, and more importantly, everyone else would be safe from them. “I still have something to take care of.” Someone to see, someone to save.

* * *

 _Rage_.

“You’re supposed to be in another dimension,” Maxwell Lorde, IV—your best friend, even if you aren't his—is watching you with blue eyes sharp and cool.

“Max,” his name is a bitter trill, shaking form your tongue because you’re falling apart—slick with blood that belongs to too many people. Your ring glows and pulses, and it tries to hook back into your mind—into your jaw to stop you from talking. _Rage_. “You need to come with me.”

He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “why would I do that?”

You break a little when you say, “Marion’s alive—and I need you to save her.”

 _Rage_.


	83. snap shot 83. ( 3, 15, 17 )

**SNAP SHOT (KARA).** _When you look back at everything, this night will seem like an unofficial beginning to so much; some moment when things clicked, and stuck, and made sense in a way they hadn't before._

* * *

You can feel the vibrations of the concert hall in the soles of your shoes—thick enough to shiver in your bones and rustle about in your blood. You don’t know what kind of music is being played, but you know it’s something of a big deal. Cat’s mother had gone on, and on, and on about their invitation for the last two months—and while that was something that Cat would usually bristle at, she’d been…excited, too.

It wasn’t as over the top as her mother, but it was the small things. It was how she didn’t need to mark it down on the calendar, or how she flip flopped on what to wear. You’d sat through a handful of outfits and she’d finally settled on something that made her eyes greener than they actually were, if that was at all possible. A cream dress with golden accents, little flecks of _emerald_ stitched into the colors. You couldn’t tell which color was coming, and which was going—but that hardly seemed to matter.

It wasn’t until the morning of the concert that Cat’s mother changed her mind—a red eye to London for the premier of something _marvelously exclusive_. Something that had made a night at the concert hall dim and mundane in comparison. Cat had shrugged and gone upstairs like it wasn’t anything at all—like she wasn’t tucking a dress away in disappointment, like she wasn’t putting her records back into the sleeves that had belonged to her father.

You couldn’t live with the acceptance of it—as if she’d been expecting this all along.

So—you _may_ have lifted the invitations from her mother’s luggage, and you _may_ have asked Mister Callaghan for a ride across town. He’d shaken his head and said he wouldn’t be able to—but his brother’s eldest son? Well, he was just looking for reasons to drive his brand new Lincoln around town and practically jumped at the chance to drive Cat.

You’d presented her the tickets, scuffing a shoe. “I know how much it meant to you,” you said quietly, smiling when her eyes went wide and her smile spread. You’d do anything for that smile— _anything_. Cat had tossed her arms around your neck and squeezed you as tight as her human arms would allow—even with your sharp hearing you could only just make out her _thank you, thank you_ whispered against your neck.

You think the most tragic thing about Cat Grant is that she’s always surprised when someone cares.

You think that’s terribly sad.

You’d watched her touch up her make-up, listened to the record scratch and roll around over, and over, and you felt like you could fly. Not anything physical, nothing like that, but your heart felt lighter and brighter than it had in so long. Like you could do anything, _be_ anything—Cat made it so easy to step away from the dark edges you see in those moments just before you woke up. She made it easy to forget the rumble of a planet that haunts your dreams.

She makes it so easy to agree when she asks, “you’ll come with me?”

You hadn’t even _thought_ of saying no.

Which is how you’d ended up in National City’s concert hall—box seats, just a row back from the edge—in clothes that were both somehow too small, and too big. Blue, to compliment your eyes and something darker, something like midnight and ocean depths. Mister Callaghan had said it belonged to his daughter, Samantha—he’d gone a little misty in the eyes when you’d stepped out of the basement with the dark shawl around your shoulders.

“Beautiful, kiddo,” he’d hummed with a smile.

Cat had held your hand the entire opening number, and you don’t think she realized she’d been doing it—her thumb running over your knuckles, her fingertips smooth and calming.

It had made it almost possible to stay for the whole thing—to stay in your seat and shut out the cacophony of noise going on around you. Everything vibrating, everything shivering and warbling—you’d leaned in to tell Cat you were going outside, and she must’ve seen something in your eyes, something bright and panicked, because she’d immediately offered to leave.

“No, no,” you’d cut in quickly, “everything’s—it’s fine. You know how—the noise.” Your sentence was garbled, and you wanted to iron out the creases, over the words you couldn’t think of, but she understood.

Cat always understood—and even though every muscle in her body was poised to follow, she read something in you that had her nodding reluctantly.

“I’ll be right out front,” you promised and carefully made your way out the side door.

Sitting along the concrete park that resided just to the rear of the concert hall, you threw rocks into a far off plant bed, watching the stones bounce and skitter away. There were next to no lights here, almost nothing to see by, which is why you’d chosen it—there would have been too much explaining needed if someone had stumbled upon you.

But maybe that chance would have been worth it, considering—

“Kind of late for you to be out here all alone, girl,” a voice drawls, oily and low. The sound crawls up your spine, and you turn to see a group of men lumbering through the dark. Even from thirty feet out, you could smell the alcohol on their breath—thick and cloying. They’re stumbling and tripping over each other, shoving and laughing—from one of the bars up the street, the ones with the music that you can still hear despite the vibrations from the concert hall.

“And in such a fine dress!” One howls, close enough now that even a human would see the glaze of their eyes. You slide from where you’d been sitting on the cement edge and plant your feet as well as you can in awkward heels that you’d only agreed to wear because Cat had strapped them giddily to your feet. You’d do practically anything when she smiled at you like that.

You don’t know how to avoid this—you can’t leave, can’t duck away into a dark alley so they’d never be able to find you; because you’re waiting for Cat, and you roil at the idea of them finding her. You can’t fight them, can’t make them regret the dark list of their eyes, because you can’t take that chance. Can’t stomach the idea that somehow it’ll get back to Clark—get back to Mister Callaghan and Cat—can’t deal with the idea that someone would find them, because of you. Without your hood, without your mask—you lose the ability to be anyone.

“You can have my wallet,” you offer. The bag belonged to Cat, but you don’t think she’d mind losing it in that instant—especially considering you’d get it back later when you had the cover of anonymity.

“Why—you think we’re here to _rob_ you?” Voice pitching up comically, but he isn’t smiling—his friends aren’t either. “We would never!”

Somehow you doubt that.

“We’re just here to—,” what he was going to say, you don’t know, because a body throws themselves out of the shadows and into the largest man. An elbow catches him in the nose, blood bursting like a popped balloon—he groans, gargling a little, but lashes out with a blind fist, catching hit attacker in the face. Someone grunts, but grabs that very same arm and twists it fully until the joint pops with a wet squelch.

Someone’s yelling “what the fuck” as the dark wrapped figure bowls into them. All fists and feet, and gritted teeth—everything in you aches to join, to help, but you stay back. Watch as bodies crack and crumple—the group must decide at some point that whatever they really wanted wasn’t worth the bruises, because they turned tail and staggered off. Bloodied at the nose, with teeth turned red, they sneered until their silhouettes disappeared behind a street corner.

He’s wiping angrily at his face, a little harder than you think humans should—hard enough that the cut on his cheek splits wider and the red rolls to drip off his chin. Dark hair, pale skin, with a suit that’s dark gray and not black, and a tie that hand long since given up on staying in a collar. He straightens and turns to you with eyes so concerned, wide and something you can’t think of a word for—relieved maybe, or maybe it’s fear.

“That was really dangerous,” you say because you can’t deal with the idea of someone being hurt because you’d been too stupid to not be prepared. He balks, shoulders hefting up a little, before he replies.

“I saved you,” he says, and you realize he’s young. Stupidly young—no, at least eighteen, but there’s something still too bright in his eyes. A blue so dark even you might mistake it for black. He’s wearing a suit that even you can tell is expensive—his wingtips alone would put a target on his back—but the way he’d run through those men. All elbows and tightly clenched fists—uncoiling outward like their bodies were the only thing keeping him from spinning off into the dark.

Something inside you recognizes that—the tense something of someone staying together with half-measures and dreams of tomorrow. He’s tall, standing far enough away that you can’t really tell if he’s stupidly tall too—instead of just stupidly young.

“Thanks but, I really didn’t need saving.” You’d been trying to avoid the confrontation, without a hood—without anything to mask who you were—you didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t want anyone to start wondering why a girl half their size had been able to crack their bones and bend their joints. You’d been willing to _cough up_ your wallet, there was nothing in it anyway, but you hadn’t had to think past that.

“You kind of did,” he insists, stumbling a little and rubbing his arm where one of the would-be robbers had glanced a rather hard blow. There’s a bruise forming under his left eye, just enough swelling that the curve of his eye was looking a little painful. “There were six of them, and you’re—,”

He’s off balance, fumbling a little, so you channel Cat. “A girl?”

He gawks, mouth gaping a bit, hands lifting to shove off the point as if it was the last thing on his mind—waving them widely. “No, no—I mean, yes, but you’re just—you’re _one_ girl.” He’s closer now, and you can see that his suit isn’t off the rack, isn’t ill fitted and loose. It looks like it’s made _for_ him, silky and finely made. You recognize it from the kinds of suits the boys at your school wear—rich boys with personal tailors and the finest materials.

“One’s enough,” you admit, but you hadn’t planned on doing anything. You planned on giving up your wallet and letting them walk away with your metro-card and the six dollars you had to your name. Mister Callaghan always told you it wasn’t worth dying over pocket change; he’d sat you down a few weeks back and told you to be careful on the nicer sides of town. Those were the places where the horrible things that happen to young girls at night go ignored—where lawyers buried truths, and trust funds had their own say in things.

“Most people just say thanks,” he scowls, brows tucking close to his almost black eyes. He’s older than you thought, but he definitely doesn’t look it—maybe closer to twenty. Or maybe you just aren’t the best judge of human ages.

“You do this a lot?” For every step forward he takes, you take one back.

He stops moving, “often enough.”

The music in the concert hall swells and the very ground beneath your feet shivers—you know he can’t feel it, can’t taste the vibrations on his tongue like you—but he looks back like he knows where they should be in the piece being played. A quirk of his lips, like he’s glad that he’s out here with a swollen eye instead of inside listening to the concert.

Maybe it’s the purse of his mouth, maybe it’s the _something_ in his eyes, but you say. “Thanks—for—you know.”

He smiles. His whole face changes with the grin, like he lost whole pounds of the darkness he seemed determined to fold into his every edge. Eyes still so dark, but brighter somehow—if not lighter—that it makes you smile too. “No problem.”

“Though you should probably not, you know, stop a punch with your face.” He barks a laugh, that swollen part of his face wincing a little as he raises fingertips to touch the bruising.

“It was an elbow,” he clarifies, but shakes his head a little. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”

You sit back on your planter, the cement cool against your thighs, even through the material of your dress. You watch him fiddle—tugging at his cuffs, and straightening the untied bow-tie at his neck. Scratching fingers pushing through thick dark hair and it isn’t until you gesture for the spot beside you that he sits down—whether under some savior obligation, or he just wanted the company, though he leaves a good foot of space between you.

He just sits there—hands folded neatly in his lap, shoe tip tapping out a beat in time with the music thrumming through the hall. It makes sense that he’d be here, you guess—probably attending the very same concert you’d left. He looks like he belongs, underneath all the bad that had just been done to his face—the blood and the bruising.

“They won’t let you back inside looking like that,” you advise while turning to look at his slightly distorted profile—the swelling not joking around.

“That’s okay,” he breezes, shoulders loosening and something like mirth bleeding into his dark eyes. “It was too loud inside anyway. I—,” a stumble, a trip through the words—but he ruffles like he’s shrugging off a weight. Something he carried with him, even if he wished he didn’t.

“Why do you go if you don’t like it?”

“Tradition, I guess.” He’s looking down at the hands in his lap, “can you make your own tradition?” he asks like he really wonders, like you might know the answer.

“If you don’t, who will?” You try not to think about how many traditions died with your people—how entire pieces of your culture ceased to exist because they didn’t touch your life the way some others did. Because you hadn’t bothered to learn them—so much precious information gone forever.

He turns to look at you, dark eyes considering before he exhales and goes back to fiddling with his cuffs and smoothing out the wrinkles in his expensive dark suit. “My parents,” he says softly, “they came every year. I never went with them—it was too far to travel for something I thought was stupid, and they never made me.” Fingers working at a piece of fabric a little too roughly, nails itching into the seam like he couldn’t help himself.

“Where’re you from?” Not National City then, though you can’t really say you have much experience with much of the world outside National City—or Midvale, or Smallville.

“Gotham,” hands stilling, everything about him growing smaller. Just the slow blink of eyes.

You know Gotham—it’s across the country.

“That is a pretty long flight,” you say, then wave your hands because you realize he might—what he could assume. Nothing inside you is promising that he doesn’t know, that no one knows—not even Clark—but you can’t help how you squeak out, “in a plane! Because—obviously, I mean, obviously—you can’t fly any other way. Because—you know—I know—humans can’t fly.”

He blinks.

Your face burns, and he blinks slower if possible—and something in your heart plummets—but he _laughs_. Loud and deep, groaning a little and grabbing his side where something must pull in pain from some hit he took. Gasping out half laughs, you aren’t sure what’s so funny until you go through your absolute _ramble_.

“Oh God,” he exhales, wiping at his eye a little, where tears are falling, “I haven’t laughed that hard in years.” That makes you sad, in the same way it makes you sad when cat’s surprised by kindness—everyone should laugh. After the last tear is wiped away, he tilts his chin, “You’re taking this all pretty calmly.” It’s nothing casual, nothing off-handed, there’s a sharpness in his eyes—something that dissects and exposes, and it makes you pull your shawl up around your neck, like he might see something that gives you away.

“Fights happen,” shrugging through your words, you curl your hands into fists so that he might not see your smooth palms, lowering your chin so that he might now see the pupil of your eyes that isn’t black—not really—but the darkest, _darkest_ red. Little hints of Rao that live in you because they had nowhere else to go.

“And you could’ve taken them?” He presses, “You know how to fight?”

“I—,” you don’t think saying no will help, not with how he’s trying to piece things together. “Where I’m fr—,” you stop—because it’s like you’ve burned the inside of your mouth. You’re not _from_ National City, you’re not from _Earth_ —your mind whirls and churns, and you feel sick to your stomach. Like you’ve suddenly done something you’ll never be able to take back. “I live on the lower-east; fights—they happen.”

Eyebrows perking, “and you either learn to take care of yourself, or…?”

The vibration in the ground has stopped—no, it’s changed, the pulse of a hundred pairs of feet moving through the auditorium, and then the lobby. The click and stomp of feet on pavement and cement—you push through all the noise, all the nonsense, and find Cat’s heartbeat in the crowd—calm, even. Pushing off the cement planter, you wobble a little on your borrowed heels—a large warm hand carefully cupping your shoulder.

“Careful,” he says, and you nod while stepping back—he doesn’t get up, doesn’t move at all. “Do you have a way home? I’ll—I can walk you?” It’s a question, and his shoulders lift in a shrug, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to pick your life apart. He feels like a boy—maybe twenty—who didn’t know what to do.

“I have—someone’s picking me up. I—my friend’s inside—it’s actually her tickets—well, her mother’s and—I.” Too many words pouring out, and you exhale to stop yourself. “Thanks, again.”

He smiles, “no problem. I’m glad I was here, even if you didn’t need the help.”

“Me too,” and you mean it. You do.

You’re walking away when you hear him shout something—the words are clear and crisp, you hear each one, but he must think you turn around to face him because you didn’t hear him. He’s standing now, yards away and in a patch of dark in the cement park, the light bending around him in an almost comical way—though you realize it’s just a tree’s shadow he’s within.

“I said—if you’re ever in Gotham and need someone to show you around, I’m Bruce.” He smiles, though it’s more a grin. “Bruce Wayne.”


	84. snap shot 84. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [qoe/23]

**SNAP SHOT. (WINN)** _You've always cared too much, always wore your heart on your sleeve. It was just a fact, a truth, but it always just seemed to hurt in the end. Until you found your family. Chosen, and mismatched, and hurting themselves. You'd do anything for them._  

* * *

“ _Metropolis mourns those lost in the callous attack—,”_ you drown out the television over the bar with a sigh. There’s enough people sitting with upturned eyes, opinions on their tongue—you want to tell them that they know _nothing_ , that none of what happened is what they think it is. You want to tell them that bad people are out there—horrible people that make your skin _crawl_ —but not who they’re blaming, not who they’re _hating_. The image on the screen is self-explanatory—a building half-demolished, a park that had once been beautiful now nothing more than upturned dirt and downed trees.

It seemed like the twenty-four hour news cycle ceased to be for the last three days—no one was moving on, no one was looking for distractions. The entire country was investing themselves in this newest tragedy. This newest _Shakespearean twist_ —that’s what your boss would have called it if she wasn’t embroiled in the mess unfolding. If she wasn’t limping blind through a miasma of hurt, and pain—if she wasn’t any number of things, really. _Old habits and hard edges_ , your father would’ve said. A blemish of a man, no doubt, but he had a way of understanding people—of knowing what a person would become after who they were crumbled before their eyes—slipped like sand through their fingers.

You know Alex had been readying herself for mindless drinking and endless twilights—you know they’ve hit that snag before, you know how those horrible nights stitched them both together.

Alex realized she was the kind of person who _keeps_ her family—who looks after them, even when it isn’t expected of her. And Cat Grant? Well, Cat realized she wasn’t half a person just for the sake of being the one left behind—of being the one left standing when everything falls.

“I haven’t heard from her in two days,” Alex had said—her fractured arm strapped to her chest, her teeth grinding so loud you could almost hear them.

You’d tried to keep Cat’s secret— _you had_ —but you’re not really the best at it. You’d grimaced and she’d honed in on it—some kind of super-secret federal agent training, you’re sure.

“Winn,” she’d warned, and you’d held firm— _you had_ —until she’d stopped looking angry and just looked sad. Wet eyes, pressed lips. You will always be a sucker when it comes to people you care for being in pain.

“She’s been texting me,” you’d confessed with absolutely no spine. “Asking about Alondra.”

Cat had been worried about how Kara’s absence would hurt their daughter—having their metaphysical bond severed as absolutely as it had been. No one _knew_ what to expect. But the girl had simply shrugged it off with the affability that children are known for. Alondra—and by proxy, Kassidy—had been staying with you since Metropolis. You knew you could short circuit every television for a three block radius if it meant keeping her away from the news coverage still plaguing the air-waves—and you absolutely would.

Anything for your goddaughter.

But that had left you firmly in the sights of Alondra’s godmother—and Alex Danvers was having none of it.

Which is why you made your way across town in the back of an Uber—a Ford Focus that smelled like nacho cheese and Mountain Dew. Kassidy texting you every forty seconds asking where something was—cereal, then Q-Tips, then bleach, then the remotes for the living room chairs. You know you’re going to go home to a ruined apartment—just how exactly it would be ruined you hadn’t determined. It could be as simple as a pillow fort, or as detrimental as bleached furniture and a tribal sacrifice.

 

A waitress asks if you need assistance, and you just shake your head—you already see who you’re here for. She’s sitting as far away from the door as humanly possible—her chair pressed up against the back wall. There’s only a single drink on the table, but you know it isn’t her first—it’s in the listless way she follows the staff with her eyes. Absently clicking her nails against the side of the glass whenever her eyes tipped upward—watching the news coverage with the empty ambivalence you know she doesn’t feel.

Cat Grant’s many things, but ambivalent isn’t one of them.

Sliding into a chair across from her, she doesn’t even turn to watch you until you’ve settled—coat over the back of your chair, mobile put on the table, and ordering a ginger ale from a passing waitress. Her eyes are green and blood shot, her skin pale and drawn—dark shadows under tired eyes.

You can tell she hasn’t slept in over twenty four hours—can tell she’s getting by on willpower and pain alone. If you didn’t know better you might still think Cat had those abilities you used to assume she had—laser vision, and super strength. Even now it’s in the way she carries herself—stepping through the agony like she’ll always come out on the other side.

You suppose she always does—even if sometimes, if only for a millisecond, she wishes she didn’t.

“Knew I’d find you here.” You don’t try to sound surprised, like you’d _happened_ upon her—Alex had been beside herself when she realized Cat and the fastest car in her garage were gone without a trace. She watches you with a blithe interest, green eyes hazy at the edges, but sharp and focused in a way that seems blistering. Like the world’s gone to shards around her and she can only look at the cracks.

“I aim to be predictable,” she salutes with her half full glass of dark liquor. Tapping it against the table and then tipping it back— _gulp, gulp,_ gone. She looks unsurprisingly kept—unwrinkled shirt, perfectly curled hair. You wonder if she’s been home between you and Alex checking, or if she was staying at one of the hotels nearby. She knew Alondra was with Kassidy, knew she was safe and cared for—which, what? Gave her room to fall apart?

Alone?

Not on your watch.

“Did you know I refused to read most fiction novels growing up?” She flags down a waitress with just a slight lift of two fingers. “It always seemed ridiculous that the world would depend on a single person, on _the protagonist_ —that despite the billions, and billions, of people on the planet it would all come down to this one person’s decisions.” _Tap, tap, tap_ —drumming her hands, you want to reach out and still them, if only as an excuse to make contact, to show how absolutely you were _here_.

How she isn’t alone.

“But here I am, the fucking idiot that married the protagonist.” Cat laughs, but not like anything in particular is fun, but like she’s holding things inside that threaten to slip out and cut if she isn’t careful. Shards of a person broken. You relate—you _know_ how sharp those edges can be. Curved corners that seem so very safe until you hold them in your hands and you slice yourself open. Palms red with blood, heart heavy with everything you refuse to let go of—refuse to put down.

“Some contrived plot device to make everything feel real—to makes the stakes just that much higher.” A glass is set down and the smile of Cat’s lips is a little too lopsided, a little too narrow. “The love interest—how bullshit is that? I built an _empire_ from the ground up and I’m just the love interest?” She scoffs, loud enough to make the couple at closest table stop gazing longing into each other’s eyes to glance over furtively.

Cat bares a feral smile and flips them off.

“This isn’t a book, or a movie, or—or.” You’re not the motivational speech guy, not even close—that’s Alex, or Clark—or better yet, it’s usually Cat. Who has golden words and a platinum tongue to say them. You’re just; you’re no one. No one important. “You’re not _just_ anything.” Watching Cat swallow perfectly aged scotch is like watching a masterpiece sit out in the rain—the colors running, the metallic taste of wrongness in the air—but you can remember what it had been only moment before.

Before the rain, before the ruin.

“You’re—you’re,” click, “you’re Sarah Connor. Sure, if you look at it superficially she’s only important because she’s John Connor’s mother, the future leader of the human resistance.” You’re babbling, she isn’t stopping your babbling. But she’s interested—you can tell that much as she cocks her chin forward slightly and watches you down her nose. “But really she _is_ the resistance—everything happens because she sets it in motion. She—she trains John, and kills terminators, and blows up laboratories. She’s badass, and smart, and loyal, and brave.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have an annual Terminator marathon—even Rise of the Machines and Genisys, God help you—maybe you should have left well enough alone, maybe you should just be quiet and let her sort everything out herself.

Maybe she doesn’t need you—your heart hurts at the thought.

“You’re—,” she’s going to make fun of you, which you’re alright with because you know a secret only a handful of people know. “You’re kind of my hero.”

The secret? Cat Grant loves with everything she is. Mind, body and soul—sharp and abrasive around a heart that’s bruised to its center, and heart that has known horrible pains. Things that could easily cripple—over, and over, and over. But despite that, despite all the reason’s she’s learned that loving hurts?

She does it anyway.

Maybe that’s why she’s your hero, because she’s taught you that—taught you that love might hurt sometimes, but it’s worth it.

“Shit, Winn.” She curses softly, too softly, and looks down at the sedate cream colored tablecloth. Her hair falls in messy half-curls around her face and you worry that maybe you said something wrong—maybe you should have just shut your mouth finally and punched her in the shoulder like you’ve seen Alex and Kassidy do. They’ve known her longer, they went through Kara’s first absence with her—maybe you should just call them and…

Cat looks up, and there’s tears in her eyes.

“You’re too good to me,” she says with a watery smile—the tears never fall.

You laugh, watching as the waitress put another drink in front of her.

“Growing up we had it all figured out, in our own way—Kara was Peter Pan, and I was her Wendy Darling. We’d read that book over, and over, and over to Clark. He’d grab fistfuls of glitter from behind Mister Callaghan’s register and throw it up into the air to make us fly.” The way her eyes flicker, you wonder if she’s thinking back to how Kara and Clark _could_ fly.

“There was something romantic about it at fifteen; at the idea of never growing up, of running away together, of having adventures. Clark would always be our little Lost Boy and we’d—I don’t even know what I thought—that we’d make it somehow. Despite Neverland, and crocodiles, and pirates—despite growing up.” Finger around the rim of her glass, and she exhales—a long pursed breath as she shakes her head. She looks like she’s debating something, something _hard_ , before this glass joins all the others you’re sure graced the tables.

Tipped back, and emptied.

 _That we’d make it somehow_. You don’t like the implication, don’t like the curl of her shoulders and the slack frown of her lips. Your phone buzzes, and you glace at it just long enough to see that it’s an alert from Kassidy, a text— _Ally’s sobbing, wtf winny, is this how you ‘fix it’?_ Your chest tightens, you can picture Kassidy trying to distract the girl with everything—candy, movies, card games—can imagine how he’d sit her in his lap and let her color in the tattoo on his forearm. You have to fix this, have to do _something_.

Maybe you _are_ someone—maybe you _are_ important.

“You going to drink this one away too?”

Cat must not hear you, because she’s shaking her head—probably trying to push down the feelings, push them away from herself, from Alondra. Glancing up, she furrows her brows, “what?”

You clear your throat—put up, or shut up. “I said—are you going to drink this one away too?”

The glare thrown your way make it almost too easy to forget that she’d been smiling at you only minutes earlier, “excuse me?”

“That’s what you do, right?” You’re treading dangerous water—career and friendship ending waters, but you’re not backing down. Despite the worry that maybe Cat _does_ possess laser vision. “Liquor up and pretend it all doesn’t hurt—that you’re not sad, and angry. That this doesn’t _suck_.” _You’re_ angry, because Kara was your friend too, because you had no way of helping, no way of stopping this from happening. You’d been across the country watching on television as the lives of everyone you love cam crumbling down in front of the whole world.

“You’re on dangerous ground, Winn. Really dangerous ground.” She might not help herself by slurring a little, just at the end—enough to make her shake her head a little and right herself.

“You’re my hero, I didn’t think you’d just—just… _give up_.” _There_ it is. You can’t exactly put your finger on it, can’t describe it in words—but something in her eyes changes. Something sharp, and sparking, and unique in a way that makes you smile.

“Giving up,” she stresses, standing up and finishing off her glass with a pointed stare. “is the last thing on my mind. I’m going to get Kara back— _promptly_. Last time—last time I thought she was dead, I had no hope. This time,” seat neatly pushed in, tablecloth smoothed out, despite not being wrinkled at all. “I know she’s alive—I can _feel_ it, even if I can’t feel her. Wonder Woman, Batman, Green Lantern—they all owe me favors for one thing or another.”

Stepping around the table to your side, “I got this.”

She’s so _cool_. Eyes still a little misty, lips pressed together, but you were right—she’s _such_ a Sarah Connor. Taking a breath, you’re still a little uneasy about what you’d said, about what you’d implied, but she pressed a hand very casually to your cheek. A small motion, barely noticeable to anyone outside you and her.

“You’re getting ballsy, Winnifred.” She says, laughing a little foggily, “I don’t completely hate it.”

You let out a breath.

“Did I lay it on a little too thick? I wasn’t sure. I was going for ‘stern but disappointed’, but I feel like it got a little judge-y.” You grin up at her, and she shakes her head—pushing your face to the side, which makes you laugh. You don’t know how you ever thought her cold and unapproachable.

“No, no, I felt your disappointment. You really got me with the, _you’re my hero_. I was choked up.” The blasé way she says it makes you laugh more, you can’t help it—Cat Grant is one of a kind. “Though you can’t take that back—I’m telling Clark as soon as I get home. Kara too, when I find her ass. Might even get a commemorative plaque.”

You know the joking it to hide the hurt, but the fire’s there, that burn that you’d stopped by to make sure still was there. That _something_ you couldn’t define, but you could see. That made the impossible seem so very possible. Cat taps your cheek and sways, which makes you stand up to keep her steady.

“Let me call an Uber, you’re drunk, and I didn’t drive here.”

“Is your piece of shit Prius still broken?”


	85. snap shot 85. ( 15, 30, 46, 48, 61 )

**SNAP SHOT (ALONDRA).** The thing about having ridiculously famous parents is that everyone has an expectation when they meet you; they're looking for traits that belong to someone who isn't you, no matter how much you look like them, or sound like them. Sometimes that's a good thing, sometimes it really isn't. Your parents are pretty awesome, but that still doesn't make you them.

* * *

You’re going to die.

You’re too young to die, but that’s probably been true for a number of people—only the good die young, right? Well, in that case you’re the fucking _best_. A top-tier awesome person, because you’re fifteen and soon to be dead.

But maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself.

Snow isn’t impossible in National City—especially after an alien detonated some martian device in the atmosphere and it completely changed the weather patterns for the west coast—but fourteen inches of snow in June isn’t really the _norm_. Crossing your arms over your chest a little tighter you shake off the cold that’s determined to dig into your bones. You’d only had a short-sleeve shirt on because there’d been no forecast of snow when you left for school this morning—then again, it probably had something to do with the creaking metal monstrosity you’d dragged to the middle of the field behind the water tower on the northern outskirts of the city. A machine designed to end caustic droughts.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Quincy sniffles, his nose turning red and his eyes going watery. The dark complexion of his skin blanching with cold, which just made the blue of his eyes paler. “But you never listen!”

“You did not!” You yell over the _whirr whirr_ of the machine, ducking below a swinging metal arm and jumping over a cord that probably would’ve taken you to the ground if you hadn’t seen it. “This was _your_ idea!” The _crackle_ of electricity makes you look up at the twenty foot rod sticking up toward the rolling clouds above. The electrical current climbs the side, sparking and spitting and leaping to the flailing metal arms reaching out in every direction as it spins.

“I was joking, Mercedes!” He yells while scrambling out of reach, tripping and rolling half-way down a hill before he clambers back to his feet and shoves at the dirt and snow clinging to his gray sweatshirt. He's been calling you Mercedes ever since he went through his  _racing_ phase at the age of eight and fell in love with the Mercedes-AMG line. “I didn’t think you’d be _stupid_ enough to actually steal it!” He’s two (and a half) years your junior and you don’t think he’s allowed to talk to you that way—at least if all the _respect_ conversations you had with your brothers were anything to go by.

“I didn’t _steal_ it! I _borrowed_ it!” Though the line on that was pretty thin—you could hear the buzz of annoyance at the back of your skull, behind the barriers you’d learned how to throw up when you were younger from Uncle Hank. The murmuring anger cutting through the edges of your concentration letting you hear snips of what was being thought at you. _Grounded until she’s_ —and _hope she’s alright_.

It made you feel a little guilty—okay, a lot guilty—but you didn’t do anything in half measures. That was something that was kind of genetic.

“Our parents wouldn’t let you _borrow_ this.” Quincy is finally at your side, shoving at more snow on his sleeves and kicking it off his patent leather shoes. The snow piles up across the field, and the clouds churn violently above. The rumble of thunder far off in the distance makes you cringe, and you wonder if this really was a good idea.

“Okay, okay! I _covertly_ borrowed it, with every intent to return it.” One snow day, that’s all you were asking for—one single day of snow. In June. “—before they realized it was missing.” The rumble in your mind lets you know _that_ ship has sailed—the _thump thump_ against your mental barriers, and the grumble when they don’t fall.

“How were you planning to hide the _weather_?” He asks incredulously while watching the electricity flash up and into the clouds—making the snow fall heavier and kicking up the wind. You’d only wanted an inch or two of snow—southern California’s infrastructure didn’t lend itself to snow, even an inch of snow.

School would have been cancelled for sure.

“You know, I honestly didn’t think that far ahead,” you reply, grimacing when the clouds darken and the first piece of hail cracks against the ground. 'Which I'm beginning to regret."

Quincy sighs, accepting his fate—like a scrub. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Oh-ho-ho yeah, you guys are bu-u-usted.” A voice sing songs and you groan loudly—refusing to turn around. There’s a soft _thud_ as large and heavy hands land on either of your slumping shoulders. “Baby sister you make my younger self look like a paragon who did no wrong with the shit you pull.” He’s laughing, and if he found you, you know you’re parents aren’t far behind.

You’re dead—post haste.

“I forgot to do my research paper,” you bemoan, letting your head thunk backward against your brother’s chest. “It’s thirty percent of my grade.”

One snow day—all you wanted was one snow day.

“You couldn’t just play hooky like every other fifteen year old?” He asks, looking down with that same wide grin that your mother smacks him for—that _I’m right and don’t you hate it_ grin. “Pretend to be sick?”

“Oh yeah, why didn’t I think of that—oh, I don’t know, because _I can’t get sick_.” Okay, you could’ve tried to find some Kryptonite, but you didn’t _actually_ want to be sick. The green rock always makes your stomach hurt. “Stop being stupid, Clark.”

Your older brother just laughs.

“Mom’s getting ready to read you the riot act, you know.” Another crackle of electricity splintering up into the sky, and more hail began falling. One going so far as hitting one of the turning arms and snapping it at the joint. It spits sparks and crashes to the ground.

Not good.

“I can fix that,” you say quickly.

“Alondra Marion Grant,” a shiver runs down your spine—from the crown of your head to the heels of your feet. You have the desire to bolt into the sky and away from the lecture you’re about to get. Clark tightens his fingers like he knows _exactly_ what you want to do, and he intends to keep your feet on the ground. Quincy tried to hide behind you, keeping your older brother’s bulky frame in front of him. “And don’t think I don’t see you Maxwell Lorde.”

Quincy cringes, but adds, “the Fifth!”

“Is that really important right now?” you hiss at him from between clenched teeth, before turning reluctantly to face your mother. Your mother’s already shorter than you by a whole inch, but that doesn’t change the fact that she _terrifies_ you right now. Green eyes narrowed, eyebrow raised—dressed in an expensive suit, though there’s a borrowed (read that, _stolen_ ) MIT sweatshirt from your other older brother.

“Imagine my surprise when I look out my window and see a foot of snow on the ground,” your mother continues, walking with a lot of effort through the snow. Kicking up clouds of powdery white with every step. “Now, at first I was willing to believe in unseasonable weather—freak snowstorm, it wouldn’t be the first time.” She’s only a few feet away now and you can feel her mind lean against yours—a familiar weight, as she crosses her arms. “But then your _ieiu_ calls me and informs me that sometime last night their Drought Repair prototype went missing, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened.”

“Okay, mom, this seems a lot worse than it is.” You say, hands out to placate.

“Oh?” She queries, “tell me how.”

The wind picks up a little more, enough that Quincy stumbles a little and your mother has to brace herself. It only gets stronger, tugging at your clothes and threatening to topple you. The snow’s still falling, and the hail is only getting bigger—it’s majorly impressive that none of you have been hit yet.

You probably can’t take credit for that.

“Okay, so maybe this is exactly what you think it is.” No more hedging, you’re caught—red handed, no mission left to abort. She’s going to lock you up and throw away the key. “I forgot to do my paper?” You add hopelessly, trying to look as pathetic as possible.

“The paper you knew about three months ago? That you told me was almost finished? That you’ve been going to the library every night to research for?” Each point makes you wince, “that paper?”

The machine stops the ear rumbling _whirr whirr_ , and the snow stops falling. Your other mother looks out from where she’s behind the machine, pushing glasses up her nose and resting her chin on the top of the control panel. Blue eyes bright and amused. “Busted two-fold, kiddo.”

Nope, you’re not getting ahead of yourself.

You’re dead.


	86. snap shot 86. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 ) [ qoe/23, Flash/2]

**SNAP SHOT (MAX, CAT, MARION).**

>   **Maxwell Anthony Lorde, IV—fifty-one—human—earth 23, National City.**

Recognizing a person is only a quarter of knowing them.

Her eyes are different—still blue, still wide—but there’s something else in them, something lurking just beneath the color, just behind the black of her pupil. Kara’s standing before you with bristling red hands and cheeks slick with someone else’s blood.

She’s shaking right down to the wobble in her knees—the all over shiver of someone trying to hold themselves together by strength of will alone.

“Marion’s alive—and I need you to save her.” _Rage_.

Like all the air has been sucked out of your lungs, you can’t breathe. You’ve been punched in the chest with only two words— _Marion’s alive_ —and you want to ask her _why_. It’s been decades. Long enough that you don’t cry when you see flashcards, or that you don’t imagine broken bottles on the floor of your bathroom. So long that you very rarely wake up to nightmares featuring empty cribs and cold sides of the bed.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, the words slipping like smoke from between your teeth. Then again. “Fuck you!” A little louder, sharper, harder— _rage_ —and Kara flinches. A wince at the edges of her beneath-and-behind eyes; not like she’s afraid, but like she’s bracing herself.

“I knew you were a monster, Cal—but I didn’t think you were a cruel one.” The words are cooler than you’d like, filtering out before you can douse them in hatred and spill anger into each and every letter. Power oozes off her like steam above boiling water—hot and humid, sticking to the insides of your nostrils, and you wonder what’s happening just below the surface. She’s a sparking wire in a pool of gasoline—a match ready to be thrown at the slightest provocation.

She growls—a literal growl—and her blue eyes bristle red. Sharp and bright as she steps closer to you, only to wrangle herself and stumble back a foot or two. Fingers curling and clutching, hitting against her ink stained thighs as a closed fist. _Thump_. Lips curling like she has no control of them, a snarl that settles only after she shakes her head and strains her shoulders up and away.

A stranger in her own body.

 _Rage_.

The ground rumbles, crumbling in on itself—the park you’d been walking though must weep as grass goes brown and shriveled. Trees beginning to smoke as leaves catch on fire—heat licking at your cheeks. There’s a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and you turn to see the man who had been with Kara—some idiot in a red suit, little lightning bolt over his ears. He frowns and vanishes in a chitter of sparks, allowing your attention to turn back to the trembling woman before you.

“I’m a lot of things, Max, a lot,” voice pitched low, gurgling at the ends of her words, but clear enough. “I’ve been a monster, and I’ve been cruel—but this. This is different.” _Rage_. The feeling’s familiar, plucking at something in your heart you don’t really remember the taste of. “I can finally tell you the truth.” Her smile looks as brittle as already broken glass—shards and shattered edges—but there’s a relief there. The kind of relief you get at the bottom of a bottle; when the hurt stops and your thoughts muddle.

“How novel,” you sneer, the bitter taste on your tongue something like betrayal—a feeling you thought long since proven when it came to Kara Ainsley Callaghan. “The truth? Don’t hurt yourself now, Cal. We both know how hard the truth is for you.” Years of lying, years of half-truths—they sit somewhere you don’t like to acknowledge, someplace long forgotten and private. Where a younger-you exists.

The part of you that loves her, still, even under all the hate.

“Marion’s alive, and I need you to save her—no, I need you to make her _want_ to be saved.” You didn’t think Kara still knew the footpaths of your heart—how to tip-toe along the edges of your soul and dive into those tender hurting places you turned a blind eye to.

“Am I to play the lyre and never look over my shoulder? How am I supposed to save my dead wife, Cal? From what I remember, the only thing I needed to save her from was you.” Broken glass and spilled water—Marion bleeding out in Kara’s arms, her eyes dark and hollow—endless eyes that threatened to swallow you, threatened to upend everything you tried to be. Her blood had been so red it looked black under the dim lighting of the laboratory.

You remember thinking _why here_ , you remember wondering _what happened_ , but it had all paled in comparison to the grand and horrible fact that the woman you loved with everything you were—was dead. Her body limp, her beautiful dark skin going cold and waxy—you’d been able to look past the red glow, you’d been able to ignore the scalding heat of her chest. All of that hadn’t mattered in the light of day.

 _Rage_.

It hadn’t mattered when you’d picked out two caskets—one so much smaller than the other—it hadn’t mattered when you chose lilies for Caroline and buttercups for Marion. It hadn’t mattered when your not-so-young aunt had forced her two brat children into suits and pressed down the shoulders of yours a little too hard, “stand up straight, Maxi.”

 _I am_ , some young and angry part of you had hollered inside—the part of you that’s eternally thirteen and sad.

“I didn’t kill Marion,” she exhales, the words visibly red, a haze of crimson sticking to the slick of her lips as she cracks her shoulders. “I didn’t.” Like she’s reassuring herself of this—like she’s remembering it herself. Broken glass, and spilled water—so much blood, so much _red_. “She attracted a ring, Max—all those years ago—she was so _angry_ that she attracted a Red Ring.” You know about the power rings—vaguely and with little detail—but you’d dealt with the Green Lantern and Clark—no, _Superman_ —enough to know that there was a spectrum of them. Green, yellow, blue, white, black— _red_.

“Convenient,” cold, you have to be cold, “that you finally get to rid yourself of the responsibility.” You won’t believe it, you _can’t_ believe it—even though details are slotting into place. _Rage_. The bitter taste on your tongue, the phantom voice in your ear—the red on Marion’s breath and the heat of her fingertips even after the rest of her had gone cold. You remember watching her through bleary eyes trying to understand why she was dripping red onto the linoleum, why she was slick with tar and bright at the eyes.

You’d woken up that night thinking it a nightmare, thinking it your mind trying to coax you down a darker path.

But here Kara is—dripping red and slick as tar with eyes brighter than Mars in a clear night sky. You don’t remember her touching you—no, _she did_ , reaching out to graze your cheek when she first appeared—hand raising to touch the stiffening black smeared on your jaw. The same black you hadn’t been able to get out of the carpets, the same black that had streaked Kara’s cheeks that night.

Details return—foggy and unclear.

_Rage_

“Why?” You’re a broken man—a dying man—and you need only a sip of water. Something you didn’t know you’ve needed for _decades_. Your brain clicks and curls, slotting together things you’ve ignored because anything else would ruin the image—would stain the edges and tarnish the paint. Kara’s looking at you with red eyes going soft at the corners, the bristling crimson flashing every sixth breath as she strains to remain where she is. You see the tension, see the struggle—it makes you think of quietly closed Oncology offices and empty chairs. Of _are you angry_ , and bitter rage on the tip of your tongue.

“It feeds off anger—it feeds off—off— _off hate_ and _rage_ ,” she rubs at her face, her ring bright and crimson—slashes of tar left down her cheeks and across her eyes. “You boil your heart, Max. The second you put that ring on, you boil away the person you _were_ —and the price of _not_ hating? Of _not_ smothering yourself in anger?” One blue eye, one red eye—blinking through the colors, hissing crimson steam from between blood stained teeth. “You die.”

Simple, right? _You die_.

There’s nothing _simple_ about it, nothing absolute, nothing _okay_. You live in a world of science, a world of mathematical precision—you can’t cure the human condition, can’t remove the human error, but magical rings? Life sustaining anger? “You’re making this all up,” you accuse, bristling and shaking your head. “You’ve always pushed the blame onto someone else, always played the victim.” It feels like truths, the words your saying, but you can’t think of exact moments—can’t think of anything that isn’t broken glass and spilled water.

That isn’t black stained carpets, and red smeared linoleum.

There's something recognizable in her now. “Not this time,” she says, fingers clenching—fist hitting her tar covered thigh harder, and harder, _and harder_ until something cracks. The black ooze splitting like rock. “It was my fault, Max—it was. The ring was only on Earth because of me; it was only close enough to hear Marion _because of me_. And I hate myself for that, I do—it was why I let you blame me, why I let you hate me, because deep down it was _because of me_.”

One long whistling breath in. “I didn’t kill her—but I might as well have.”

Shaking—every part of her shakes as she shows you the back of her hand—the ring bright, the tar of her fingers melting and slipping away to show tan skin and broken nails. “See this ring?” You can’t _not_ see it—bright and filled with malice—you can feel it in your bones, in your blood. “Marion took hers off that night—she took it off, and she died.”

And like a fucking fool—Kara yanks hers off.

The ring sputters and screams—an audible sound—as the metal sizzles in her palm, the tar melting away, the black and red on her gurgling and slopping off into the charred grass around her feet. “S-She didn’t want…” Kara coughs—blood bubbling over her bottom lip, oily and thick—falling to her knees and clenching her fist around the ring. “She didn’t want to be this.” Her eyes are too blue now, too pale in comparison to the tar streaked skin and the red stained blonde of her hair. “She’d rather die, than be t-this.”

“Put the fucking ring on, Cal,” you say, heart beating a little faster, _something_ twisting inside your chest. “Knock it off—put it back on you bastard.” She shakes her head, only once and with no grace—heaving forward to vomit crimson onto the ground.

“We have to save her, Max,” she’s croaking, vomiting more blood, “we have to. She didn’t w-want to be this; but she is. She s-s-survived somehow.”

You don’t step any closer, don’t try to force it onto her finger, because you can hear the voice like an old bed-fellow. _Aren’t you angry?_ It asks so slyly, daring you to step forward, daring you to slip the ring onto your finger. _Rage_. The voice is loud, is insistent—but you’re not angry, not overwhelmingly. For the first time in what feels like forever you’re—you’re—…

Hopeful.

“—and I think she’s going to die, the ring…” The voice is unfamiliar, it’s fast and worried, and you turn just in time to see the jump-suited idiot rub at the back of his neck with a hand, the other outstretched like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’s, apparently, talking to no one—that is until you see blonde hair and light colored clothes flicker out of the corner of your eye. Turning back to Kara, you’re not really surprised.

Cat _fucking_ Grant—kneeling in the blackish red blood soaking into the ground, prying at Kara’s fist with single minded determination. You can just make out, “you jackass, opening your _fucking_ hand.” The tar seeps into the pale color of her trousers—turning the fabric sticky and sodden. Her sleeveless shirt already streaked with finger marks as Kara paws at her upper arm and shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric.

With shaking hands the media magnate shoves the Red Ring back onto her wife’s finger—flinching back when the power oozes out and spills into the air around them. Cat’s sweating profusely, cheeks going red with the heat pouring off Kara—but she doesn’t move back, doesn’t move away. “You idiot,” she murmurs, leaning _in_ to press her forehead against Kara’s tacky tar covered shoulder. “You fucking idiot.” Its reverence, and relief, and something like fear—but you can barely hear it, can barely see it.

“I was coming home, I promise,” Kara’s whispering, words that are lopsided and soft, her face twitching and trying to smile, but it’s like her cheeks are only half working—like she’s only half herself. The ring pulses again, and Cat groans—the pressure must be enormous, because when she lifts her hand to touch Kara’s cheek, it shakes and struggles, but doesn’t stop. Nails painted—ironically—crimson trail along a cheekbone, tracing the blade up and into hair dyed tar black and blood red. A mess of color.

“Last time it took you a decade, supergirl. Excuse me for not wanting to wait,” God, they’re everything Marion used to say. Stupid, and ethereal, and in love, and—and— _together_. You see the weight of being apart in the shadows beneath Cat’s eyes and the strain in Kara’s voice—something outside the pulsing power radiating around them. The red bleeding back into the blue of Kara’s eyes, the tar crawling back up the length of her legs. “Hal’d already called me when your little running friend showed up babbling about rings and alternate-realities.”

Cat’s skin is blistering—turning red and scalding in places, but she doesn’t remove her hands from Kara’s face. Doesn’t retract from the pain. “Why didn’t you tell me your cousin was back in town? At least he has pants on this time.” You don’t get it—that isn’t Kara’s cousin, you know that much to be true, but the Red Lantern is laughing hard enough that she devolves into hacking coughs. Globs of black splashing on pale fabric and burned grass.

“Cat,” she says reverently, a smile splitting her face—literally splitting, the skin inky and molten, tearing apart in such a way that molars become exposed through her cheek. A horror, truly, like the ring was determined to devour her entirely this time—determined to possess her in ways that loving Cat Grant can’t stop. Crimson smoke rolls over her bottom lip, as red bleeds into the whites of her eyes—making her seem worldless and timeless both.

“I got you,” Cat whispers, never shying away—not even for a moment—and you _swear_ something under her skin bristles red, something in her eyes goes crimson for a moment. A haze, a tint—something, but then it’s gone and she’s turning to you. Eyes hard, and jaw set and you realize she hasn’t much changed from that teenage girl you knew once upon a forever ago. It’s the strangest realization to have.

Recognizing a person is only a quarter of knowing them.

“Cat,” Kara wheezes, shaking her head out of Cat’s hold, “ _zrhueiao_. You can’t be near me, I’m dangerous.”

“Larry insisted you needed me,” Cat intones absently, trying to not react to the molten heat that must be Kara’s skin as she recaptures her face between her palms. _Larry_ —you know full well that isn’t his name, even if you don’t _know_ his name—says something pithy and far-away, but it doesn’t matter. None of that matters.

“I haven’t been dipped in the Blood Lake,” she chews on the words, harsh things that they are. “I need to—I need…”

“You need me,” Cat soothes, coughing on a haze of cold crimson that comes from between her lips—her eyes definitely look red, look brighter and inhuman. “I’m better than any Blood Lake, though that does sound absolutely lovely; maybe we’ll partake another time.” The tar shivers and stumbles, rolling over itself across the brown grass until it can adhere to Cat’s ankle. “I hear you, Kara. I do.”

Forehead to forehead, “let me be your heart. Can’t boil me, supergirl.”

“Ally,” Kara groans, shaking her head and trying to pull away, but Cat won’t let her—won’t allow the distance. “Ally, she…”

“She can’t feel us,” Cat promises, “I made sure of it before I left. She’s with Clark and—…”

Kara blinks awake, alighting for the first time in what feel like whole forevers—blinking eyes draining to blue as she shakes her head. “With _who_?” She’s incredulous, coughing on tar and smoke and just waving it away, trying to power through it to get the answers she wants. “Really, Cat? You left our daughter with my twenty-four year old doppelgänger with abandonment issues?”

“Well _excuse me_ for having limited options,” Cat snarks, throwing her hands up and huffing—the tar is crawling up her ankles and adhering to her thighs, but she doesn’t notice. Not yet. There’s a glowing red symbol on her chest, barely visible through her clothes—eerily similar to the symbol emblazoned on Kara’s chest. A symbol that’s currently being jabbed by Cat’s index finger. “ _Someone_ —who shall remain nameless—threw themselves into an interdimensional portal in a fit of martyrdom and left her in their stead.”

“ _Zrhueiao_ ,” the Red Lantern hedges, you might not recognize the word, but it has all the staples of _honey_.

“No, no,” Cat continues, “tell me _your_ solution. Because don’t think we’re not going to have a talk about a few things. So many things, Kara—a _plethora_ of things.” The red symbol beneath her shirt brightens, the fabric even beginning to smolder with some unnoticed heat—and as it brightens, the one on Kara’s chest dims. It’s…interesting. To witness the physical manifestation of the balance—because there’s no doubt that that is exactly what it is.

“But first,” your _former_ best friend says, turning returned blue eyes to you. Cat doesn’t immediately turn, but her head tips as if she’s listening to something—listening intently. And then she gasps, a chest deep sound that splinters and swells and you can only see how she turns to look at Kara with eyes absolutely devoid of red. They’re wide, and—and— _wet_? A single tear trips along her eye and tumbles down her cheek, hissing away with the heat pouring off the both of them.

“Really?” Incredulous, hopeful, some slanted mixture of them both, “she’s really alive?”

Marion. They’re talking about Marion, and with that knowledge it’s like the air punches back into the room—filling your lungs as they had been deflated before. God, you want to believe them, you want this to be true more than almost anything—but you’ve been a pragmatist for too long now. Half a forever, and you don’t want to fall blindly into this horrible hope building in your chest.

“You swear it, Cal?” Her blistering gaze snaps up and you see yourself reflected back in those eyes.

“I do,” she rumbles, a bestial sound.

“On your wife?” You insist; her eyes flash and Cat frowns, “on your children?”

But she doesn’t get a chance to answer—not really—because Cat _fucking_ Grant is drawing herself upward, digging fingers into Kara’s shoulder to keep her down. Her hair snaps in the phantom wind tugging at your clothes, and you can’t help watching the faint glow from beneath her clothes—the black tar slicking her calves and crawling up the outsides of her thighs.

“Don’t blink, Max, don’t you fucking blink. This is what you spent _years_ wishing for; when every logical bone in your hateful body said to not bother. This is what you would have sold _everything_ for.” She says, her voice hoarse and scratching, and you frown because she sounds softer than she has in years— _decades_. “We’re the ones who were left behind. We’re the ones who got to mourn—but we’re also the ones who had the chance to get them back.”

You _know_ , you do, but you squeeze out a single word, “them?”

And she smiles—that college smile of a girl who was leagues away from hating you. Who fought with you because you both didn’t know how to say anything _nice_ —who fell asleep on your shoulder because her newborn was driving her mad and she’d needed _help_ —and she had turned to you. All those years ago. Whole forevers.

Kara’s stumbling to her feet, dragging tar through the brown grass and keeping herself upright only by catching herself on the shoulder of the scarlet-suited boy. He steadies her, and then there’s a tear opening in the air before them—lightning and air spitting and splitting everything, until you can only just make out the words of your blonde nemesis.

Eyes bright red, though they should be green, “The women we love, you xenophobic asshole.”

> **Catherine Jane Grant—forty-eight—human, plus—Earth 2, Central City.**

Everything inside you burns. A constant thrum just beneath your skin that blisters and spoils, but you can barely feel it anymore—you feel closer to Kara than you ever have before. The burn tugs you closer, and closer, and closer, until you can’t remember where exactly you stop. Where her Kryptonian blood begins and your human frailty ends—the line’s been blurred for years now, getting hazier with every day that passes, but it’s never felt…

—nonexistent.

Like you could simply stop breathing and Kara’s rising chest would keep you alive—like her thrumming heart could keep you going. But that wasn’t true, was it? No. _Your_ heart was keeping _her_ going, it was diluting the anger, and the hate, and everything hard and sinister that was ricocheting around inside. Keeping it lowered to the dullest roar. Swallowing down the rumble threatening to spill form your lips, the growl that was anything _but_ human, you turn to watch your companions.

Barry was standing with his finger pressed to his ear, turned away like he was trying to hide his conversation—but even twenty feet away and whispering, you could hear him. Kara’s Kryptonian hearing mingling with your senses like it often liked to do— _we got this. You don’t have to worry, I promise...no! I’m not_ — _we need to talk, I know I apologized, but...I meant it!_ —you don’t know what he meant, but it raised his heart to an inhuman beat, though it already sped a little too fast to begin with. You could feel it like a hummingbird’s wing against your teeth.

Max stood with clenched fists exactly where he was deposited—dark suit, narrowed eyes, the gray that was too stylish to be natural making him look _distinguished_ instead of old. You saw phantom lines of the frat boy you used to know—the sad jokester who expected the back of someone’s hand before a handshake. He always reminded you a little too much like yourself—just as Jack Ellis did, once upon a time—which was why you could never...just be friends. You were rivals, and adversaries, and reluctant companions—the significant others to the two most important women in both your lives.

And then Marion died—and then Kara died, and you were both just empty, and hard, and looking for reasoning to be mad.

And neither of you disappointed.

“This is idiotic,” he says.

“This isn’t idiotic, you idiot,” you snap, the burn crawling up your throat, the rumble pillaging the dark places in your heart.

“Clever,” he snaps, turning blue eyes to you.

“The cleverest,” you drawl, fighting the scalding at your fingertips and the heat in your chest. The symbol etched into the black covering Kara burns brightly on your chest—the lines crisp and searing into your skin. You feel it; the sizzle and bubble of your skin, but it doesn’t _hurt_. Not like it should. Absently, you pluck at a button until it loosens the fabric of your blouse enough to expose the upper most crimson line of light emitting from beneath your skin. Your pale skin peels and flakes, the skin turning blistered and red, but you pick at it carelessly.

You should care, shouldn’t you?

“That doesn’t look good,” he says, finally shaking out of whatever vile little headspace he seemed to always exist in. Stepping closer to peer at the crisping skin of your chest—you watch the blistering with little regard, though you _know_ it should be excruciating. “What the fuck even is it?”

You ignore him.

Kara’s staring off into the darkness, and you know she’s looking for Marion—who is alive, who is a Red Lantern. You see the flickers of memory against the backs of your eyelids— _Kara’s_ memory—how Marion had sneered, how she’d blinked red, red eyes like she didn’t recognize who she stood across from. You don’t talk about it ever, the deep painful place where Marion and Caroline exist—the bad that had paled in comparison to the bad that followed. A pain that never healed because you never let it truly _exist_ for any length of time. You collapsed, and crumbled, and rebuilt yourself for your children—you had remembered their deaths years after Kara had “died” and you felt like a monster for not remembered sooner.

For not mourning them like you did Kara—for forgetting how much you’d hurt in their absence.

That hurt lives now, feeding the red inside you that funnels between you and Kara—spitting back and forth, back and forth, never staying long enough to fester and spread too far. The anger’s there, the hate’s there—but it’s nameless and possessionless, it exists because it always has, not because it’s needed.

“Marion’s been like this for years,” you say softly, words strained, because you don’t want to _think_ about it, don’t want to think about the black tar slicking her entire body, or the red digging into the beautiful color of her eyes. Snapping another button open, you probably would have smacked him at any other moment, but you know his eyes are glued to the charring skin of your chest—you’re burning alive, but it doesn’t really matter.

“She’s angry, and burning, and doesn’t want to change because if she’s angry she doesn’t have to feel anything else.” Looking at him, waiting for him to catch your eyes, you raise an eyebrow. “And we both know how much easier it is to be angry than sad.” You would have burned the world to ash ten times over if you didn’t have your boys—would have torched it all to the ground because _your_ sadness had to be worse than anyone in the universe.

Until you held Clark the first time he broke down—and you realized there were things so much worse than sadness.

Until you held Carter in the middle of the night when he realized Kara would never again read him a bedtime story—and you realized you would take all their pain into yourself, in an _instant_.

“I’m not leaving without her,” he says, eyes dark and hard, and you see something in him you haven’t seen in years—hope _._

Something inside you sputters and flares, and you have to look away—have to walk toward Kara and lace your fingers through hers until the heat spills away from you. You can breathe again, even if your breath is crimson haze and licks of embers. She squeezes your hand tight enough that your human bones should crack, but you can only squeeze back just as hard.

Looking into the dark, you can’t see whatever had her attention, but you see the slightly off alignment of the stars—you can _taste_ the difference in the air, though you could never put a finger on it. Could never define it in words, and you wonder if this is the life Kara’s always lived. A world of differences that simple don’t exist to anyone else. She looks at you and her eyes aren’t red—you can see in the reflection of her eyes, that yours _are_ , but you didn’t expect anything else.

Her eyes have always been blue—have always had poems in their depth; _bottomless vales and boundless floods, and chasms, and caves, and Titan woods_ —but you see something else in them. Stardust and constellations, little specks of color that might’ve been the stars she passed by on her trip across the galaxy. Little reminders of somewhere dead and ageless that your human eyes had never seen—flecks of colorless black in the edges of blue, hints of colorful white behind the shifting gray. You wish you had words for it, quantifiable ones, but you only have an ache in your chest that spills and flows like mercury through your veins; heavy and thick, and cloying in such a way that you felt a little less _you_ and a little more something else.

Impenetrable, otherworldly—inhuman.

“If you told me at fifteen that we would be rage-monsters in another universe, I’d’ve smacked you.” You say out loud, because the red buzzing in your ears clouds your thoughts; you feel Kara’s mind rubbing along yours like a cat rounding itself before sleep. Around, and around, and around—little pricks of claw and a press of pad soft paws at the softest parts of you. I keeps you focused, keeps the red low and away from your ears—the anger bounces back and forth between you it has no hope to hold on, no hope to corrupt and consume. _Tha-thump, tha-thump_.

You’re reminded about how Kara would set her chin on your stomach, listening to Carter’s heartbeat months before he was born— _tha-thump, tha-thump_ —now you listen to your own heartbeat in the darkness of her mind. Keeping her steady, keeping her _here_.

“We’re not _rage monsters_ ,” she says, though something light and flickering smooths up the edges of your mind, comforting and safe. Not a laugh, not out loud, but you can feel the humor in your chest beside your beating heart. “We’re—cosmically enhanced pieces in a complex and integral scale of power necessary for the safe and fair moderation of civilizations throughout the universes.” One moment, two moments—you turn to see her nodding absently, like, of course this is what is happening here. Obviously.

“You’re so full of shit,” you deadpan, lifting a finger to jab her in the ribs—she laughs, a loud barking sound that had Barry and Max turning in your direction, but you’re so glad to hear it. It lives inside you, digging deeper than the red, deeper than the anger, and the fear, and the simmering _something_ defining so much of you right now.

“Yesterday,” you choke, chewing on the word. “Yesterday, I would have given anything to hear that laugh one more time,” you whisper, stepping closer, ignoring the red haze clinging to Kara’s skin, the tar clinging now to your thighs and to your waist. “Anything.”

Her hands are slick and black, but even with the cloying tar covering her palms—you can feel _her_. Her warmth, her soul, her mind nestling around yours. Filling in all that buzzing quiet that had threatened to drive you mad in the weeks she’d been gone. Pulling you closer, pressing against you, you finally can’t stop the tears.

They hiss and turn to steam as soon as they touch your cheeks, but you’re hiccupping, trying to shove the ache deep down, because you’re here to _do_ something. To save someone—not just anyone, _Marion_ —but you can’t, not in this moment. Not with her forehead touching yours, not with her fingers digging through the black ooze covering your waist—scratching and clawing until you feel the fingerprintless touch of her fingertips against your spine, counting each and every vertebra as her fingers drag up underneath your blouse and jacket.

“I was coming home,” she says hoarsely, eyes pressing closed, the red haze around you both doubling, and tripling, and growing hot enough to brown the grass at your feet. “Nothing could’ve kept me away. Nothing.” You feel a pulsing power threaten to swallow you, it clambers and tugs, but it can’t hold on properly—not when it’s oscillated between you and Kara, not when it is just as confused about where she ends, and you begin.

“There's no you, and no me, supergirl.” Not anymore—not for a while. It’s harder and harder to remember what it was like without the press on her mind on yours. “Just us.”

Kara smiles, and your heart skips a beat. You’ll love this damn woman until the end of time—until the world falls in on itself, and up is down.

Until the stars go dark—and even after that.

“How’re we going to do this?” She asks, softly enough that you hear just a hint of that worry—a hint of that fear. It’s crimson, and dark, and spilling out and away with every unsure thought spilling through her.

Specifics? You don’t know specifics—but you do know one thing.

“Like we’ve done everything else,” you grin, red hissing from between your teeth. “Together.”

> **Marion Gabriella Washington—???—Human, Red Lantern—Earth 2, Central City.**

You don’t recognize him at first—not the hair going salt and pepper at the temples, not the thousand dollar suit, and the hard dip of his brow. He’s tall, and broad, and slanted in such a way that he doesn’t match up to any particular memory—he’s behind Kara, getting lost in the haze of her ring’s power. Human and insignificant in the face of such overwhelming power—anger, and fear, and hate—building and piling and threatening to buckle the world at her very feet.

But then you see his eyes—blue, maybe gray, and bright.

Hopeful eyes.

You remember flashcards, and lipstick stains—cloudless afternoons and smoky bars. You remember stained glass windows and cheap coffee—a hand so much bigger than your own shaking and tightening, threatening to cut off circulation to your fingers. Stained glass windows—stale coffee—a sea of unrecognizable faces. But those eyes—blue eyes, hopeful eyes—looking at you from a podium at the front of the room. Large hands, shaking hands—stale coffee and colored light. “I’m Max,” he said, a thousand lifetimes ago, whole forevers and entire eternities. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

The red _howls_ , spitting mad and desperate—chewing down into your bones and spoiling the memory—destroying the cloying _something_ building where your heart once was. _Love_ , maybe. The red squeezes the memories away, pushing them down and into the black of your mind—no, not everything. Stale coffee, bright lights—beeping machines and unwashed windows. Small hands, shaking hands—eyes bright blue, but smeared with exhaustion, dark skin going pale and blotchy. _Beep, beep_ —stale coffee, brittle wafers and green jello.

“Mama,” she whispered, low and scared, _now, now, now_ —the hiss of oxygen and the beep of machines. The taste of stale coffee and the sentence given— _terminal, inoperable_. Caroline smiled, she always smiled, even when you knew it must hurt so much. Your brave girl, your precious girl.

 _Dead_ , the red reminds, grinning and chewing, and pulling you down. _Aren’t you angry?_

"Yes," you exhale; a single word, a powerful word.

 _Rage_.


	87. snap shot 87. ( 3, 18, 34, 36, 49 )

**SNAP SHOT (CARTER).** _You’re not a lost boy, not like Clark. You don’t worry about Neverland, you don’t fear Captain Hook—you have real world concerns like political climates, and literal climates. You wonder about whether or not you’ll be able to change the world like your mothers, like your brother. And it isn’t until you’re in the dorm halls, listening to everyone else—that you realize that’s normal. Everyone worries about how they’ll seem after a hundred years._

_You’re alright._

* * *

**[07:43 PM]** **C. Callaghan:** They’re going to embarrass you. So bad—laaaame.

 **[07:45 PM]** **C. Z. Grant:** Don’t you still have that handful of dirt I gave you during _your_ orientation?

 **[07:46 PM]** **C. Callaghan:** Shut up.

 **[07:51 PM]** **K. Grant:** Did you forget that we’re part of this group message?

 **[07:51 PM]** **K. Grant:** “How did one of our boys get into MIT again?” – your mother, by the way.

 **[07:52 PM]** **K. Grant:** I’m also being told I have to add that she doesn’t mean it and she loves you both.

 **[07:53 PM]** **C. Callaghan:** Did she pull a hammy backpedaling that hard?

 **[07:55 PM]** **C. Callaghan:** She’s calling me! Kara! Control your wife!

 **[07:56 PM]** **C. J. Grant:** Stupid statements like that are why only _one_ of our sons made it into MIT, heathen.

 **[07:57 PM]** **C. J. Grant:** We’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart. Did your idiot father get back to you?

 **[08:01 PM]** **C. Z. Grant:** Yeah. He’ll land tomorrow morning. You didn’t all have to fly out, it’s no big deal, really.

 **[08:03 PM]** **K. Grant:** It is a big deal, buddy. We love you.

.

 **[03:24 AM] K. O’Doherty:** I am not an idiot!

.

Lying in bed with your phone held above your face, you smile at the group chat—it pings at all hours of the day and night, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You wouldn’t be surprised if they had all gathered to form some kind of blood pact—some promise to keep the chat going… _constantly_. You know you’re still a little boy to your mother; she’d said as much when she was helping you pack up your room in the middle of July.

Well—you were packing. She was sitting on your bed holding every toy you unearthed from your closet wistfully. Sometimes, when you come across some snappy tabloid article, or some garbage internet piece, you wish they could see her how you do—see what an amazing person she is. What a _strong_ person. In a family of super-powered aliens, you marvel at your mother’s strength. Her ability to smile, even when it seems impossible, her ability to withstand—to love.

Sitting on your bed, in the middle of summer, wearing pajama pants that were _definitely_ stolen from your Aunt Alex. Toying with a pair of kitten heels that looked like they had probably come with some Halloween costume. “You wanted to be Cinderella for Halloween when you were two.” She’d said casually, clicking the clear plastic heels together. You’d paused—a robotic arm and a messy ball of wire in your hand—and just looked at her.

“What?” You’d asked, blinking.

“Mhm, Cinderella. We’d just watched the movie—I say _just watched_ , but you made me and your mother watch it at least ten times easily.” She settled the little heels in her lap and smiled. “You were adamant; you’d found the costume catalog and you’d picked out your favorite dress. It wasn’t actually a Cinderella costume, but that didn’t seem to matter.”

“And you let me?”

“Of course! My son was going to be the most beautiful Cinderella. I was going to have something custom made, but Clark had already taken you to Party City.” Said with the most ridiculous faux shiver of disgust. “You were so happy. Wore those plastic heels for a month afterward.”

Said like she’d forgotten—like it was something that had just been overshadowed by everything else. Which is understandable, you guess—considering what happened the next year.

Weeks later, after you’d settled into your dorm and finished unpacking all the boxes lining the wall—you’d gotten a text. Just a picture, but one you’d never seen before. You’re two and hoisted up into your ieui’s arms; wearing a pale blue dress made almost entirely of glitter and cheap lace. You’re grinning wide and stretching out a foot to show off the plastic heel barely maintaining its position on your small foot. Your ieui’s dressed as Prince Charming, and your mother—well, she was Darth Vader. The text that accompanied it explained the choice—kind of.

 **[04:52 PM] C. J. Grant:** We rock, paper, scissor’ed for who got to have the matching costume. And then I won a match against your brother.

Followed by another picture which showed your mother grinning wide in her Darth Vader costume, helmet under her arm—and Clark. Well, apparently Clark had to be Leia. He was scowling at the camera under a horrible bun wig—you were surprised how well he pulled off a metal bikini.

Those were just two of the ridiculous pictures being sent without warning—from family barbeques, to birthday parties and wedding days; your mothers’ and Clark’s both. Grinning while you roll to sit up and glance over at your roommate. Virgil’s eating a bag of nacho Doritos and scrolling through something on his phone—you’d spent the entire summer googling horror stories of people having horrible roommates that it felt a little anti-climactic that you liked your roommate after everything you’d read online.

“My pop’s pulling up outside,” he says looking up, grinning at you. “I told him he didn’t have to bother coming out, you know?” Virgil’s smart, and outgoing, and he’s already coaxed you into two separate parties—and didn’t seem to mind when you left after only an hour; the noise, and crowd not really something you’re comfortable with yet. Maybe once the semester starts, maybe once you accept that you’re three-thousand miles from home and are _alright_ with that.

“My parents are the same way,” you agree, shrugging on your sweatshirt and tucking your phone away into your pocket. You know your parents are ambling around the campus; pretending like they’re alright with this by not making a bee-line for your building. Your mother had texted you something ambiguous about the technology building twenty minutes ago, but you know they’re outside—you don’t even have to look.

This wing of dorms was for the mechanical and electrical engineering students—you were double majoring in both, and Virgil was electrical engineering and applied mathematics—so it wasn’t much of a surprise to have to dodge around people hefting boxes of spare parts and wires.

“Aye, yo,” he says, ducking under a robotic arm sticking out of a doorway, “we should totally partner up for that robotics grant.” Casual, like it was no big deal, but it makes everything seem— _alright_. You’re three-thousand miles from home, you’re alone—but you aren’t. You’ve already made _friends_ , including the grinning dark skinned boy who just happens to be your roommate. “I mean, it’s no big deal—we don’t…”

“No, no!” You are quick to assure, “that sounds awesome. I can have my ie—my ma send my blueprints and spare parts.” Virgil grins wide and hits you lightly in the shoulder before sprinting back out towards the back door of the dorm, you hear his _cool, cool_ as he flees and laugh.

You’re three-thousand miles from home, but you’re alright.

The last few weeks have been—unique. You’ve never been away from home for so long, and you expected to feel it like a tumbling weight as the days passed. Some smothering feeling that would make you realize you _couldn’t_ do this, and that you needed to leave. Each unpacked box, each carefully folded shirt; everything that is _you_ —right now—stashed away on one half of a fifteen by twelve room.

It all feels like a weight—heavy, and cumbersome, and threatening to buckle—but you’re…you’re alright.

The worlds large—too large—and you’re far from home, but you’re alright.

Squinting against the sun, you put a hand up to shade your eyes while you search. There’s families everywhere—siblings and parents and moving trucks. People lugging boxes around for those who hadn’t showed up a few weeks before semester. There’s laughter, and loud voices, and even some crying—and you’re alright. Because across the lawn, in the middle of a crosswalk, is your family.

Your mother’s wearing glasses that you know she stole off your father’s face, looking down at the campus map carefully—manicured nail jabbing insistently at something while she talks. It’s too hot for the suit she’s wearing, but that’s never stopped her before. Always something about the unwashed masses that adore her, which never fails to make you laugh. She’s standing beside your father, but you can tell he isn’t really listening to her talk.

Your father’s in a rumpled three piece suit, tie half loosened and hair a disheveled mess. You know he was in China only a few days ago, and know he has to go back right after this. You’d tried to tell him he didn’t need to fly in for parent orientation, but he’d been insistent—he’d even _cried_ , which had been a little awkward for everyone, though mostly him. You’re sure he’d come here right from the airport so that he could go to _everything_ the university had to offer.

“They’re both really proud of you, you know.” You yelp—just a little—and turn to see your ieui walking up from one of the paths that lead to another building. A minimalistic Lorde Technologies tee-shirt and beige slacks, her MIT credentials hanging off her belt; the little laminated card with _staff_ written on it. She’s done lectures here for the last few years; more so once she reclaimed her position at Lorde Technologies as Chief of Staff a year ago.

You know she’s not saying anything to your professors, she’d taken it very seriously when you said you wanted to do it on your own. “You brother was the same way,” she’d laughed when you told her that.

“I’m,” she stumbles, straightening out her glasses, and grinning wide. Stepping closer to loop an arm around your shoulder to kiss the top of your head. “I’m so proud of you too, Carter.” She looks so much better—the red that seemed to linger _months_ afterwards no longer visible in the whites of her eyes. The spikes of anger that she tried to hide—that she’d gotten too good at hiding, no longer even a worry. She’s better, much better—and…

She’s just—she’s your ieui.

“Aw, come on,” you grouse, though you’re smiling too. “It isn’t that big of a deal.”

“Sorry to tell you, bub.” She squeezes you, just a little, “but you’re our kid, so everything you do is kind of a big deal. And those two over there?” You both look at your mother and father, now arguing over the map—fingers jabbing in completely different spots. “They going to try being _cool_ , but don’t let them— _Rao_ knows they’ll be insufferable if they don’t get the crying out.” You don’t tell her that behind the thick lenses her eyes are wet, but you know you don’t have to.

“I’m glad you guys came,” you concede finally, softly, and it isn’t embarrassing at all to turn into her and wrap your arms around her. She hiccups a little when she hugs you back, squeezing you tightly enough that it’s just a little Kryptonian—just like Clark.

“I’m glad I can be here.” You know she doesn’t mean orientation—not _just_ orientation—and it makes you exhale. She means the Phantom Zone, and Barry’s Universe—she means Darkseid and the World Killers—she means everything that could have stopped her from being here today. Everything that had been some weight to the very foundation of your family that had hurt, and ached, and seemed impossible to bare.

“Me too.” You’re crying, not a lot, but you can’t stop the sniffle which just makes her lean back a little and wipe the stray tear off your cheek. For you, she smiles like she’s never had a reason not to—wide, and happy, and loving. You want to tell her she doesn’t have to pretend around you, that you’re older now—that you understand—but you don’t think she is pretending. She loves you, she always has, and it’s enough to make you sniffle a little more. She loves you enough that everything else isn't important.

You’re alright, you’re fine.

“Let me go get those two,” she says, inhaling and wicking away her own tears and posing as if to ask if they’re gone, before going over to where the rest of your parents bicker. It doesn’t startle you in the least when a small body leans against your leg—looking down you see your little sister’s half-open eyes, thumb still tucked in her mouth. It’s crazy sometimes to see the mix of your mothers in her—being able to say whose chin she had, whose eyes or nose. Blinking sleepy green eyes, she extends a hand up to you—a small Ziploc full of grass.

“Home grass,” she supplies, a little lackluster, but you forgive her. Hoisting her up, she tucks herself easily into the spot under your chin.

“Thanks, Ally,” you whisper, not wanting to talk too loudly, especially when it looked like she was ready to go back to sleep at any second. “I was so worried when I forgot to bring some with me.” She grins wide around her thumb, little nail picking at the zipper teeth of your sweatshirt.

“Mommy says I have to visit on a plane,” she complains, huffing loudly enough that you laugh—you’re watching your _ieui_ play mediator between your mother and father. “Clark doesn’t got to visit on a plane. S’stupid.”

“Planes are safer, boo boo,” you sooth, rubbing her back until she huffs a little more and curls a hand into the collar of your shirt. You can tell she wants to say something but drifts off somewhere in the middle. Hefting her up a little higher you smile when your mother tucks into your ieui’s side and all three of them turn to you.

Your family might not be conventional, it might not even always make sense—it isn’t easy, and it isn’t always happy, but it’s real. And that’s all you can ever want. You wouldn’t have become the person you are if it wasn’t for each and every one of them. You imagine—no, you _know_ there’s a world out there where this family didn’t exist like this. You met a person with your ieui’s face who had never been your parent; she’d been nice, she’d been _so similar_ , but there was something missing.

“That your sister?” Virgil asks, ambling up to your side—hands in his pockets, dark blue and gold sweatshirt half zipped.

“Mhm, this is Ally—who is so excited to see me she fell asleep.” Alondra doesn’t even murmur from where she’s still tucked under your chin—her little alien body getting heavy, but you just heft her up a little more. “Those’re my parents.” They’re walking over, slowly enough to give your father enough time to wipe the tears from his eyes so he can be _cool_.

Virgil makes some kind of noise like he’s choking on air and you look over—dark skin paling a little, darker eyes wide. He’s pointing with a bit of a stutter, and you sigh—he obviously recognizes your mothers. Cat Grant and K. A. Callaghan can’t go many places without being recognized—especially on a college campus full of nerds. He’s still stammering and you hope this doesn’t change everything.

“Yeah, my mothers own two of the biggest corporations in the worl—,” he doesn’t let you finish.

“Your mom’s the Spectre?” He says it quietly, _really_ quietly, and you start— _not_ expecting that. Your ieui must hear him because she cocks her head to the side and smiles widely at Virgil. He’s straightening—trying to look taller and wider, like he’s not a scrawny kid from Dakota City. Tightening his jaw and looking _so serious_ , and you can’t help laughing, even if it makes Alondra grumble.

What’re the chances?

“Virg! You didn’t say you were going to MIT!” She says happily, catching him in a hug that startles everyone—including Virgil—who hastily hugs her back and squeaks. Just a little. Turning back to you and your mother, she laughs a little. “Remember that new member to the League I was telling you about? This is Virgil Hawkins. Small world, right?”

Maybe the world isn’t large—it’s a small world, after all.

You’re alright.


	88. snap shot 88. ( 2, 17, 33, 35, 48 )  [canon/38]

**SNAPSHOT (CAT GRANT).** _Sometimes, when you stare into the abyss; the abyss stares back. You don't typically paraphrase Nietzsche, but sometimes it just feels accurate. You left National City so that you might be able to break eye contact with your own personal abyss. Afraid for the day it might stare back. Little did you know it would follow you across the world; chasing your heels like an attack dog on a perpetually short leash._

* * *

The happiest place on Earth—yeah right.

Carter’s grinning at you from the line he’s been waiting in for the better part of an hour—you’d offered at the beginning of the day to speak with someone about getting him to the front of the lines, but he’d insisted that it was part of the experience. _Charming_ , but you would have given him anything to make sure he’d always smile like that. Bright, and uninhibited—you’re glad you’d turned down the President’s offer in Washington, you’re glad you didn’t let the troubles of CatCo Spain spur you into stopping in and fixing everything they had inevitably ruined since you’d left it in their barely capable hands two years prior.

No, you’d declined every sponsored event, every hosting offer, every award show presentation, so that you might spend a few uninterrupted weeks with your son. Carter had been slow to warm to the idea, not the most enthusiastic traveler, but when you’d told him the itinerary was at his discretion he’d bloomed. Historical landmarks, natural wonders—plastic castles—he’d thought of everything, and you should be grateful he’d chosen only _one_ version of Disney to attend.

Disney Paris was every bit the blight to your senses you imagined it would be—plastic buildings and cheap stone as far as the eye could see, but Carter skipped through the crowds like they typically wouldn’t make him cringe. He demanded matching shirts—settling for the least offensive article, though the cotton blend was an affront to your well moisturized skin—and _no tours_ ; he’d been oddly adamant about that, and it wasn’t until the fourth line together, and sixth alone, that he admitted he liked being _normal_.

“Everyone’s waiting for the same thing,” he’d said while stepping through a turnstile and into the luke-warm darkness of some attraction or another. “Like—everyone’s just happy to be here.” And it was oddly true—strangers chatting to each other, playing raucous games of Heads Up on mobile devices. It was—it was _nice_. You can’t remember the last time you were _just happy to be here_ , and you’re beginning to understand.

Turning down to your mobile, you tap on your newsfeed and exhale all the air in your lungs to prepare yourself—something you’d gotten used to doing the last few weeks. The first article that pops up is from a smaller National City publication that didn’t really bother itself with hard-hitting journalism. It liked school bake sales and community center basketball games—adorable, uncontroversial, and simple. Little did they know the horrible secret they were currently broadcasting to the world.

They’re doing a piece on Supergirl; some charity event or another—except it _isn’t_ Supergirl.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

You’re sure they don’t, because it isn’t the headline of every news outlet across the country. There’s a few blogs in the dark net that are asking questions, but they’re teenagers in their parent’s basements who don’t realize just yet that they’re asking the right questions. The questions that tend to be forgotten when the world gets bigger and more complicated—when bylines and pressures make everything seem unwieldy and impossibly heavy.

You make note of the internet pseudonyms about possible job offers in the future—though you really don’t know how someone named _MILFhunterpro69_ or _bigdickbilly_ will fare in your establishment.

“ _Supergirl poses with Girl Scout troop_ —,” you roll your eyes and are tempted to swipe past the choppy retelling of some unnecessary puff piece that the news just couldn’t ignore. The girls—all around ten years old—grin wide for the camera, clustered around the red and blue hero kneeling in their midst. Supergirl’s set perfectly as she always is—blonde hair curled, eyes that perfect shade of spring blue, and smile set. It’s a heartwarming photograph, really—National City’s super had gone on about cooperation, and team work, and all manner of gooey touchy-feely nonsense.

You watch the public appearances—you watch the disasters adverted, and something inside you trills and worries. _Where’s Kara_? It’s a thought that tips through your mind without consideration—National City has its pseudo hero, but the only reason that would be necessary would be if the _real_ Supergirl had gone missing.

Or worse.

Carter’s going on Hyperspace Mountain—or whatever—for the fourth time and you’d almost thrown up after the first. Jerky high speed motion isn’t your friend, probably not even a close acquaintance if you’re being honest. You’re sat outside under the awning beside the ice-cream shop—your face is blasted with cool air every time the door opens, with the faintest hint of strawberry and chocolate twisted through the artificial breeze.

You want to say you notice her right away…

But you don’t.

It isn’t until a stroller goes rolling past—nearly clipping your toes off—that you look up to glare at the clueless mother staring up and into the sun, like some kind of braindead turkey. When she passes you happen to see _her_ —body folding and hunching in such a way that seemed particularly uncomfortable. Dark mesh hat with _Disney Paris_ written across the front with large sunglasses completing the textbook _incognito_ look she was going for, but all of that is secondary. It’s the itch at the back of your neck that makes you aware of eyes looking in your direction, its decades of journalistic experience—whatever it is, it makes you pay attention.

Tall, lithe, with hands shoved into the pockets of her sweatshirt, elbows askew on the top of the fence she leaned on—trying _too_ hard to look nonchalant, and maybe it’s the blonde of her hair, maybe it’s the particular incline of her jaw, but _something_ itches at your memory. You _know_ her, even if you don’t know who she is—and you wish you could put your finger on it. Adidas on her feet, jeans that were inches too short and—and— _that was it_. The shirt was ugly, horribly ugly, but it was the screen-printed monstrosity that Carter had _almost_ convinced you to wear at the Grand Canyon.

Mustard yellow and half-tucked underneath a Batman sweatshirt that is two sizes too large with sleeves pushed up to bunch at her elbows. You remember crackless blue skies, and orange dirt—inevitable holes in the ground and Carter’s bell bright laughter as he sprinted through the parking lot toward the bright red metal fence and see-through skywalk.

Fifty feet and a crowd of people would never prevent you from knowing _exactly_ where your son was—feigning distraction was half the battle with a teenage boy, even one as responsible and introverted as Carter. There’d been a blonde there—mustard shirt, different shoes, different hat, but you don’t imagine she’d be wearing the same clothes two-weeks later and an ocean away.

The shirt must be a connection—a totem to something.

Something you do must tip her off because she’s tensed, looking up at the sky like she’s trying to find something— _anything_ —to advert her attention away from you. You’re not an idiot, and you’ve learned to trust your instincts. Looking back down at your mobile, you click through an e-mail or two until you can feel her eyes again—you can’t make out much of her face behind the shade of her hat and those _ridiculous_ sunglasses, but there’s _something_ …

Maybe it’s the jaw, or the exact shade of her hair—it’s _something_ …

Still looking down at your mobile, you click through a company newsletter and roll your eyes at James’ addition to the notations; they’re not _bad_ , but they’re personal. A little too warm for someone who’s supposed to be managing your empire from within your glass house. Standing up—still looking down—you walk toward the railing just beneath the exposed portion of the Hyperspace Mountain—or whatever—line. You actually do look for Carter, but you’re fairly certain he’s further up the line.

But you’re only two people away from your multi-continental stalker.

There’s screams from one of the near-by rides, and you look up just in time to see the roller coaster dash past filled to the last seat with people. Hands in the air, flashes from the camera at the bottom of the drop—you imagine it must be the biggest thrill in some of these people’s lives. People who look at the scroll at the bottom of the news and have to imagine what it’s like to be a statistic.

The man beside you finishes crumpling his park map and walks away; the woman beside him follows with an agitated _Charles_.

You step closer—she’s looking at the roller coaster too.

“I’m of the opinion that we skip past the denials,” you open with, not mincing words.

She spins.

Up close you can see the blade of her jaw tense as her teeth press together, you see long fingers curl tightly around the railing like she’s considering the ramifications of simply hopping over it and into the artificial pond. It’s almost comical the way the brim on her hat sits against the sunglasses over her eyes, throwing almost everything about her face into shadow. Her lips are parting in something like shock, and there’s that _something_ that prickles the back of your neck.

“I don’t— _what_ ,” she tries, words tying together—tumbling gracelessly from her mouth. Low, a little gravel in her words, and you can’t help but appreciate someone with texture to their tone. It’s the talk show host in you.

She’s taller than you thought—thinner too, but there’s a solidness that seems right. Though you don’t know why. She presses lips together like she’s keeping words inside, and you just want to pry them free—you like answers.

And you’re good at getting them.

“Illuminating,” you drawl, cocking an eyebrow. “Now, explain to me the reasons I shouldn’t be calling my personal security detail.”

She doesn’t look scared—doesn’t look nervous—no, she smiles. It’s slow, and crawling, and it’s— _pretty_. You don’t expect that’s a normal reaction to a possible multi-continental stalker, but standing this close you don’t feel unsafe—don’t understand why that prickle to your senses isn’t one of fear, but of curiosity. She’s leaning against the railing, but her hands have loosened.

“I—wow, okay.” She says, and it’s not much better than _I don’t—what_ , but her smile widens and you begin to wonder if _she’s_ alright. There’s a shakiness to the expression, a tremble in her fingers as she taps her knuckle quickly against the railing— _tap, tap, ta-tap_. “I didn’t think you’d notice me, and am now realizing I’m pretty stupid for thinking that.”

“Hm,” you hum, exhaling quickly before glancing back up to the line of the ride—it’s barely moved. Good. “Sunglasses.” You say, with little to no preamble, and you can tell it surprises her. You won’t have this conversation to little warped replicas of yourself in her obnoxiously large lenses—you won’t converse with someone cowering under the brim of a freshly purchased hat.

“What? No—,” her taking one step back just means you take one forward.

“Sunglasses.”

She’s watching you. You know it even if you can’t even begin to see her eyes—it’s the almost unnoticeable tilt of her chin down, like she’s aligning something. It reminds you of someone, but you can’t think of who. It isn’t until she’s reaching up to pull the sunglasses from her face that you see the marks up her left arm—graying pocks that look almost like cigarette burns, but not. It’s the strangest thing to notice, the strangest thing to keep your attention—especially considering she’s doing what you want.

It isn’t until her sleeve falls over her forearm that you look up—and gasp.

It’s Kara—only… _not_.

If you had even an ounce of artistic talent, you know you’d be able to draw Kara Danvers from memory. The soft plead of her puppy-eyes, the firm nod when she’s determined to do something right—that smile—that smile that’s softened you over the course of years. That’s broken down walls, and mended bridges you thought long since demolished for good. You have six or seven absolutely unnecessary names for the color of her eyes—a game you play when waiting in silence for some response or another—and all of that, _all_ of that knowing someone…

Says this isn’t her.

“Well,” you exhale, and she flinches—just a little—and you feel bad. It’s the guilt that’s reserved for Kara, but this _isn’t_ Kara. “I wasn’t expecting that.” You’d go so far as to say she looks more like Supergirl—the change having very little to do with glasses and a blue and red suit. No, no cape need apply here. It’s the look in her eyes, the line of her jaw—something that says she’s seen and done things. It’s the tragedy stitched into her; a tensile strength that belays a lot.

“You’re taking this well,” she says while taking one more step back, which—again—means you take one forward.

“The hat too.”

She doesn’t even put up a token protest, no, she simply plucks the hat from her head, and piles of gold hair falls around her shoulders. Definitely more Supergirl. Her cheeks are higher, and her nose is longer—it’s the strangest thing. All those soft edges, all those curved angles straightened like razor blades, right down to the very line of her jaw.

“You’re not Supergirl,” you say, not willing to beat around this particular bush.

“That’s not what I’ve been told,” she’s cheekier than Kara Danvers, that’s for sure—something sharp in her that’s familiar. Again, you can’t put your finger on it. “For all intents and purposes; I’m supergirl.”

It doesn’t feel like a proper noun when she says it—doesn’t have… _gravitas_.

You frown. “Intents and purposes are for politicians, reality stars, and lawyers.”

“Can’t say I’m any of those,” she’s tugging the hat back onto her head, and you don’t comment. It’s looser now, tipped up so that you can see the majority of her face. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—but there’s something untouchable about her. “Though I was on an episode of Cribs once; so maybe, technically, that middle one.”

“Firstly,” you jab a finger in her direction, expecting her to step back, but she doesn’t—which leaves you jabbing her in the collarbones. And strangely enough, she smiles—blue eyes going bright, squinting just a little with something strangely like mirth. “We’re getting back to that comment at a later time.”

She raises an eyebrow—it’s so _fucking_ familiar.

“Secondly, we’re straying from my initial assessment.” Your finger’s just kind of presses to her chest, but she doesn’t seem intent on moving. You don’t either. “You’re not Supergirl.”

“No,” she relents, tipping her chin. “No, I’m not.”

“So, who are you?”

She smiles, lifting a hand to wrap around yours—her skin’s _scalding_ —but all she does is smile and…hold your hand. “Off the record?”

“For now.”

You’re not pulling your hand back, but she seems fascinated with it—looking down and frowning. Your manicure’s perfect, and you know you moisturized—and lord knows you carry enough Purell when you’re out in public.

“I’m a version of her. From another Earth.” The way she looks at you—it’s personal, it’s…intimate. It’s what makes you take your hand back and _not_ pursue when she does take another step back. You feel like a lawyer that’s asked a question he doesn’t know the answer to. Dangerous practices.

“How Star Trek,” you drawl, “Am I to assume if you’re here, my Supergirl is where you belong?”

She nods, quickly, “she’s safe.” A dangerous promise to make.

“What do I call you? Supergirl seems…inaccurate.”

“Oh my Earth they call me the Spectre.” You imagine she has a suit—imagine it isn’t in primary colors. You picture something darker, something more Batman than Man of Steel. Something that melts into the dark—you try to imagine _your_ Kara like that, and it’s hard. You’ve seen her at bottoms, you’ve seen her breaking and building herself anew.

No—your Kara doesn’t have the coloring for it.

“Fantastically ominous.” She grins, and you smirk; now, the important question. “Did I name you?”

“Nope,” she pops, leaning a little more casually against the railing, looking over your head and waving to someone—looking up, there’s Carter, with wide eyes and an open mouth. From a distance it must look like Kara—which is the only explanation for why he waves back so enthusiastically. “Perry White did. Travelled all the way to National City to _discover me_.”

That’s just _wrong_.

“No CatCo on your Earth?” You’re probably taking this too well, but you’ve accepted the abnormal with very little aplomb. Maybe it’s the years of pretending you _don’t_ notice that Clark Kent is Superman, maybe it’s moving from one disaster of a city to another. Maybe you’re just a _hard motherfucker_.

“Not at the time,” she’s still look up at Carter—waving every little bit, while grinning. “You were still in college.” She says it casually, like she’s forgetting something—and the moment of realization happens when she looks back at you and furrows her brow. You want to smooth the worry away, want to help—though you’re rather twisted around yourself about helping others blatantly.

“Perused my Wikipedia page, have you?”

“Something like that,” she says, and when you lean away from the railing to go back to your bench, she follows. Trailing a few feet behind you with hands shoved unceremoniously into the pockets of her sweatshirt. She doesn’t sit, hovering beside you like she’s ready to sprint off at a moment’s notice. “My friends call me Cal, though. Short for Callaghan.”

“Callaghan.” You test the name, and it doesn’t sound _wrong_ , which makes it alright enough. “Not very tight lipped about your secret identity, are you?”

Different Earths, different versions of people—you suddenly think about who _you_ are in her world. Who is Cat Grant, if she isn’t _you_? It’s the strangest worry to have—to wonder about someone who both _is_ , and _isn’t_ you.

“I trust you,” she’s looking at you like she might know you, like she sees something you’d much rather keep hidden. All those little corners of your person that aren’t for public consumption—the pieces you tucked away when you were still young and able to hide. Before flash-bulbs followed you down the street, and every hand you held was subject to speculation.

“And,” she pauses, shrugging a little. “Who’ll you tell? I don’t exist on this Earth.”

And the realization tumbles through the blue of her eyes like a Shakespearian tragedy—Macbeth playing out in every dark pot of her iris, Hamlet in the whites of her eyes. Her tongue peaks out to moisten obviously dry lips, and her jaw clenches—you can’t read the tragedy in her, but you recognize it. The glimpses you’ve seen in Kara, in Supergirl—when she’s willing to be honest, and when you’re willing to listen.

Two realities that pass like ships in the night.

“I’m trying to get home,” she breathes, the words tucking and trembling—her body folding in until she’s sitting beside you on the bench. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel her warmth—a palpable heat. “I—I fucked up.”

The curse sounds harsh, sounds wrong—but you don’t say anything, don’t point out this obvious incongruity. She’s looking at her hands, and you wonder what she’s seeing. “I—I let something control me, drug me, and I fucked up.” _Control me_ , the phrasing prickles something in your memories, but you’re focused on the curve of her shoulders. The slide of her blonde hair over her shoulder until it’s obscuring her face. This isn’t _Kara_ , but there’s a strange niggling in your heart like it could be.

This version of Kara.

“As someone who—…reacts poorly, on the very rare occasion,” you begin slowly, “the first step is usually apologizing.”

“I killed people, Cat,” she says your name like she _knows_ it. Like it belongs in her mouth, on her tongue—and your mind is absolutely going there. She looks at you with shattered mirror eyes and you want to do _something_. She’s looking at you like you might know something, like you might have the right words to help. _Killed people_ , definitely not _your_ Kara. “I—it wasn’t me, but it _could’ve been_. It was some part of me, some shadow of who I am. You can’t just apologize for that.”

“Why did you kill them?” Not usually a good defense, but you feel like it’s important—like there’s a story behind this story. She looks at you like you’ve surprised her, like she isn’t exactly expecting the question. Her hands pressing against her chest, and rubbing where you’d jabbed her a few minutes prior.

“They were going to kill my son.” You see it now— _the shadow_. It passes over her face when she looks over your head and waves again—just the smallest movement of her fingertips, and you know Carter’s waving back. _Kill my son_ , the darkest of your nightmares—the cruelest of your horrors. You know you’d kill for Carter, it isn’t even a doubt in your mind—no moral, no code, would come between your son and safety.

“Sounds reasonable enough to me,” the revelations there, that she has _a son_ , but it’s almost secondary—almost unnecessary. Maybe it’s the stupid little wave she’s still giving Carter, or the quarter-smile she can’t help. Maybe it’s the agony in her bones, and the bleeding in those too blue eyes. It’s something, but it’s not a surprise. This Kara—who isn’t your Kara—is older, even if she doesn’t _look_ it. Still smooth, and young, and polished—but older, somehow.

“I hope Supergirl really is a hero on this Earth,” she’s looking at you like she’s making a joke, but it doesn’t seem funny. “Especially if these are on par with your usual hope speeches.” Okay, it’s a little funny—you smile, and shake your head. She’s leaning back, sitting up like she doesn’t want to hunch in on herself.

“I don’t do hope speeches,’ you begin with. “And I usually don’t condone murder, but I’m flexible.”

“You absolutely are,” she says it, grinning a little too wide, and then she burns red. Cheeks flushing and her handing cutting through the air like it might push away her last sentence—the sentence that absolutely implied that she knew what you looked like naked. Raising an eyebrow, she bawks—literally, like a chicken—and shakes her head. “Morally! Morally flexible!”

You don’t think that’s much better.

“Oh yes, absolutely. Cat Grant, known for her lackadaisical morals and penchant for murder.” You’re still just looking at her, straight faced—and it feels a little too good to watch her squirm. “In my villain circles they call me the Mason—because I lay bodies like bricks.” She can’t seem to decide between laughing, and continuing to shoo her prior words off into nothingness.

“I—what? Really?” She almost looks hopeful, like your status as a supervillain will save her from her own self-dug hole.

“No,” you smack her arm—firm, very firm. “Not really.”

She’s relaxed a little, leaning up and back, hands going back into her pockets, and she’s looking at you in a way that’s significantly more intimate that the implication that she’s seen you naked. There’s love there, bright in her eyes, stitched into the soft edges of her smile—and you’re jealous, of who you don’t know, but someone out there owns this smile and it’s not you.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she doesn’t say it like she regrets it, but like she knows she should. “Just like I shouldn’t have talked to Carter at the Grand Canyon.”

“Then why did you?” A simple question, that you feel like might not have a simple answer.

“I miss my family—my home, I miss—…” She trails off and lets her head thump back against the wall of the ice cream parlor. Her hat flattens unattractively against her head, but she’s not really paying attention. “I haven’t been right in a while—I’ve been…I thought I was doing better, doing fine, but this whole thing makes me realize differently.”

You don’t like the way she say _right_ , like there’s some imaginary line of wellness in her mind that she’s just beyond—that’s within sight, but impossible to cross back over. “You don’t have to be fine,” you say, wanting to reach out, but not. “Not absolutely, not all the time. No one’s fine all the time.” Even the happiest people have moments—Kara, _your_ Kara, flickers through your mind.

“But if that’s inside me—the ability to do what I did…” She’s looking at the sky, eyes drifting along with the clouds—and this time you do reach out.

“It’s only human to have a darkness,” she slides her eyes over to you with a raised brow, and you roll your eyes, flicking her very solid arm in reprimand. “Yes, human—I’m sticking with it. What matters is that you don’t act on it, that you move past it because that isn’t who you are.” Her arm is firm beneath your palm, and you swear she’s leaning into you.

“Having that ability stripped from you,” you grimace—remembering a balcony and a plummet to the ground below. “That’s like playing for pink slips with someone else’s weighted dice. It isn’t fair odds.”

Life isn’t fair, but neither should it be so horribly cruel.

Her eyes are wet, blue oceans with rippling waves that only take a single blink to roll down her cheeks—you were right, she’s beautiful. Unlike you, she doesn’t blotch red when she cries—she’s still smooth, and young, and perfectly aligned.

“I thought you didn’t do hope speeches,” her words warble, and you realize you’re rubbing up and down her arm. You try not to be tactile, try to retract your hands before they embarrass you—only with Carter can you trust that your touch is welcome. Carter, and now Kara—whose collar you fix absently, and whose cape you clutch in your fists.

Apparently any _version_ of Kara.

“I dabble,” you try to sound dry, try to sound like you’re so very put-upon, but it must not come across well, because she’s capturing your hand under hers. Pressing your finger to skin that seems to bleed heat through her clothing. She’s leaning forward, and you think she might actually be bold enough to kiss you—…

But she wraps her arms around you and pulls you close—her nose behind your ear, her arms tight with fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. There’s a wet spot growing on your shoulder, and you can only pat her on the pack, fingers tangling in free flowing blonde hair. She doesn’t sob, or shudder, or do much of anything—except cry quietly.

Looking up at the line, you don’t see carter anymore, and you wonder how long you have until your son questions you about this not-Kara halfway onto your lap.

It doesn’t feel right, but it really doesn’t feel wrong either.

Like she’s a piece to a puzzle completely different than your own, despite how easily she fits into the hole left in your picture.

Matching—but not right.

“I miss you,” she says softly, almost too soft to hear—and you wonder if she’s imagining this other version of you. Some version of you that’s earned the love in blue eyes, that inspires trust, and comfort, and something that might feel like family. You want to tell her she can’t miss you, that she’s only just met you, but none of that comes out. Instead you’re murmuring softly in her ear—it might be _I miss you too_ , or something completely benign; there’s no conscious thought of what spills from between your lips.


	89. snap shot 89. ( 15, 31, 33, 46 )

**SNAP SHOT (CAT).** _Just as you know the sun will always rise, you know you'll always love her. It's simple, and complicated, and somehow it worked. Somehow that impossible dream that seemed so far from your reach for so long - was your new reality. And you couldn't be happier._

* * *

Almost everyone has gone home, and you’re left with everything you’ve ever wanted.

The music has softened, and the actual professionals have turned in for the night, but you don’t want this forever to end. Don’t want the soft haze that you’re living in to ever go away, because beyond this perfect moment is reality—and you’re in no particular rush to return to that. The world could exist without you for a while, you’ll have to trust that they can get by without a guiding hand for a few hours more—because you’re a little tipsy, and warm, and so very, _very_ happy.

You listen to the _clink_ of plates being stacked and put away, watch as servers in untucked shirts skirt the walls to collect expensive china. They scurry and scatter, trying not to draw any attention, but you want them to linger in this glow too—to enjoy the slowing _something_ , that is right now.

You should get your physical tomorrow because you’re sure it’ll be the only time your blood pressure isn’t high from well-maintained stress, but stress nonetheless.

“You look like you’re on cloud nine,” someone says, a little warble in your reality. “Marriage suits you, kiddo.” It’s Perry White, coat already on, unlit cigar in his hand. He’s older than you ever thought he’d be—an oddly young thought—but he’s smiling that rakish smile that had made him the largest shark in the tank of them that was the old school press core.

“You haven’t called me that in twenty years,” you comment, smiling a little because it’s refreshing in a way—with CatCo and your steady climb to the top of the industry, you’d somehow stopped being his prodigy and became his competition. It had felt like the strangest transition in your twenties, but now—decades later—it’s hard to remember everything that came _before_.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, and you actually look at him, blinking through the haze just enough to see someone who’s trying hard to be a person, and not the expectation of who he is. You understand in a way he seems to recognize. “I don’t think I ever told you that. Seemed a bit condescending after a while, but figured it’d feel alright to say it today.”

If you were anyone else you’d tell him about how all you’d wanted to hear at the age of twenty-five was that he was proud of you—leagues behind your mother being proud, and ages away from the warmth of Mister Callaghan’s pride—Perry White had shaped you in a way that mentors and obstacles tend to. Lasting and bone deep.

But you’re not anyone else—you’re you, and that means you can’t tell him that.

Not even today—maybe especially today, because all those years ago, he was wrong.

“Do you remember that overseas assignment?” Your golden tie slides absently though your finger, and you can only stop to see the rings adorning your finger—yellow gold and decades old, it still makes your heart skip to see them on _your_ finger. Not around Mister Callaghan’s neck, not around Kara’s.

It’s taken forty years, but they’re finally where they belong.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The one to Iraq, the one I almost didn’t come back from.” You remember impossible heat, and the smell of melting rubber, and the _pop_ of automatic weapons. But that’s all secondary somehow, because you’re remembering before that—standing in Perry’s office, and making a choice.

“Damn,” he hisses. “What a fucking cluster-fuck that was.”

You laugh—it was definitely _something_.

“Sometimes I think that was the worst choice I ever made,” you lean back a little in your chair and watch yet another cart go rolling into the back with piles of plates and scraps of what had been the most beautiful cake you’d ever seen. “But only sometimes.”

Every other time it’s the best thing you ever did.

You smile, you can’t help it, because Kara walks out from the far balcony with Carter under her arm. He’s almost tall enough where she can’t do it easily, her shoulders hunching up a little to account for his growing height.

“You thought I couldn’t be serious if I wanted to settle down, if I wanted to have kids and be a wife.” You know that’s how Perry views it—family is a distraction, one he _loves_ , but one nonetheless. Looking back at him, he’s watching you like you’ve done something interesting. “I’m glad you were wrong.”

“Getting married at almost-fifty doesn’t mean I was _wrong_ ,” he isn’t particularly harsh about it, but you know he doesn’t like being told he’s wrong.

“I only ever took that assignment because I _had_ already settled, I _had_ already raised a kid, or did you forget who your ace reporter is dating?” _That_ had been a hysterical award show—Clark had gotten his first official award for journalism, and you hadn’t been able to contain the excitement long enough to wait for privacy. A half-thousand cheek kisses and a far-to-loving hug and Perry was shook.

“You still took it,” he counters, and you smile.

“I did.” You did, and it was the first domino to fall. “I only ever cared about the truth because of them.” Clark’s laughing out on the balcony, having caught Kara trying to teach Carter some youtube dance or another. There’s a lot of arm movement, and almost no body motion. “Because of the good, and because of the bad—but always because of them.”

Perry snorts, and he goes to lift the cigar by way of habit, before realizing it isn’t lit.

“I could tell back then you were running,” he supplies, and now you _do_ look at him crossly—eyebrow arched, lips pursed. “You’d been so damn quick to say no when I asked, the about-fucking-face kind of clued me in.” He’s raising his own eyebrow, and you know you shouldn’t be surprised—he’s not an _idiot_ , at least not completely.

“We’d had a fight,” you don’t know if you’re really answering him, or just talking out loud.

“And flew half-way around the world?” He knows the answer. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Oh, _a lot_ dramatic,” you agree, “let’s not forget who I am. I specialize in grand gestures—good and bad.”

“Oh, you’ve mellowed, Grant.” Wry and drawling.

“I haven’t mellowed—I’m…,” you shrug, hapless for the first time in what seems like forever. “I’m happy.”

“It’s a good look for you.”

“The best,” you sigh, drifting off a little—tumbling back into the smooth haze of soft lights and the quiet pad of non-slip shoes.

Perry just shakes his head, grinning all the while. He’s standing up and putting a hand on your shoulder, and you cover it with your own—nothing too heartfelt, nothing too grand, just two people who’ve known each other for a few decades. “I wasn’t kidding,” he says softly, fingers squeezing a little. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile, “I know.”

And like that, he’s gone—walking through the deserted halls and out into the far away lobby and into the early morning coolness that is National City. You both have half a thousand things to say, but you’re alright never saying them. An odd comfort between two professional truth seekers.

The haze still bubbles, and you’re left watching the linen’s being stripped off the tables closest to the hall. The staff pulls them taut and then folds them carefully over their arm a few times. One, by one, by one. You’re drifting and happy, but you don’t even startle when large scalding hands fall onto your shoulders. You know who it is without looking.

“They’re starting to put the music away,” Clark says by way of greeting, and you curl your fingers through his—pulling his arms until he’s giving you someone of a hug. Chin on the top of your head, steel arms squeezing you lightly.

“Mhm,” you hum, only half listening—two men are breaking down the dais that the music booth was on, unplugging and sorting.

“Dance with me?” He asks, and just like that he’s six again—small enough that he could stand on the tips of your shoes while you waltzed around your apartment.

“Always,” you answer, allowing him to pull you up. The song playing is a melodic up-beat tune that you don’t recognize, but it doesn’t matter because Clark’s never had anything resembling rhythm. He twirls you, and dips you, and laughs when you stand on _his_ toes as he walks around.

Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much, but you don’t even care.

You’re just tipsy enough that the room spins _with_ you, but you can’t care about something as inconsequential as moving rooms when you’re _this_ happy.

There’d been a time—a long, long time—when you thought you’d never have this chance. Never be able to see Kara in her beautiful dress, or Clark and Carter’s poorly choreographed dance routines. It had been some distant impossible dream for so long, that it still feels unreal—still feels like a dream. Like at any moment you’ll wake up to cold sheets and a broken heart.

“It’s real,” Clark whispers, nose and mouth tucked into your hair, and you realize you must’ve said it out loud.

“I know.”

Real, and impossible, and inevitable—and now.

It doesn’t feel like a final chapter, but you don’t feel like you’re falling anymore—like everything in your life was on some pre-determined spiral to the bottom. This, and then this, and then this, and then this—until there was nothing left.

“I wouldn’t have been able to believe in love if you two hadn’t worked out.” Your precious boy—your oldest son—this strong, confident, heroic man who had once been your lost boy. “Because if you didn’t work—what’re the chances for the rest of us? You guys are—I don’t know—cosmic, or something.”

“ _Or something_ ,” you snort, which makes Clark laugh. You’re not really dancing so much as hugging and swaying.

“Oh, shut up,” he grouses.

“Love you too, baby boy.” You don’t realize the music has long since stopped—don’t realize that the only noise is the scuff of non-slip shoes on the hardwood floors. You’re content like this—content to sway in the silence. Content to marvel of how big Clark’s gotten, content to strain to hear Carter’s laugher just beyond the glass patio doors—just…content.

No, not just content— _happy_.

So many people rush through the book to know the ending—like everything in between is inconsequential—like happy middles are meaningless. You’re alright with this not being your final chapter, you’re fine with turning the page to see what happens next. No skipping to the end, no final page—you’ll go word, by word, by word until there’s nothing left to be said.

“Love isn’t something you believe in only when it works,” you confess. “Love matters most when it seems impossible. That’s what— _that’s_ when it’s most important.” When the sky is dark, and morning seems so far away. Love isn’t believing in the sunset, it’s wishing on a star lightyears away that’s falling through the black of space on the off chance that it might come true.

“Hey,” Clark pulls away, grinning down at you as he twirls you once more for good measures. No music needed. “I thought hope speeches were my thing?”

“I’m expanding my horizons,” you step back, sway, and wave him off when he goes to steady you. “Everyone else in my life swears by them, I was feeling left out.”

You wish this was your forever.

This moment, until the stars go dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there; feel free to send me prompts for this 'verse, little instances you'd like to see in this alternate timeline. You can find me on tumblr @ **civilorange**. Prompts, comments, questions; and I tend to just reblog nonsense. 8)


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